Indian mama,
her hair blowing back,
stands above the valley looking down on her village.

She sees,
through tears,
the youth who do not understand what all the fuss is about.

Why all the dancing?
Why all the chanting?
Why all the feathers and paint?

It makes no sense to them;
it's as if they have no past to remember.
Who among the elders let the torch fall?
Who among their families didn't tell the stories?
Who among their friends knew the stories but didn't tell them,
and why?

Are they ashamed of what it is to be of the first families to inhabit this land,
to know the patterns and harmonies that make this earth?
Why is it that the only stories our youth are told
are those of downtrodden, put upon, put aside,
mistreated and misunderstood Indians?

Rarely are they told of their Elders who bore the traditions proudly.

Have we become complacent...
or are we ashamed?

I pray to the Elders and to the Great Spirit that this is not true.