When the horses came
The travel was faster
They carried the load
Ran into battle
Herded buffalo
And were counted as coup when stolen
These riderless horses
Whose ghosts run through them
Sometimes
There are other ways to war
Than to kill into forever
Where bodies cannot be forgiven
Of their lifelessness
When all that happens or stirs
Is slaughtered
The riderless horses
Whose ghosts run through them
There was a time when
Stealing horses
Or a slap of hand
Or prod by stick while riding,
Was enough
To win at a game called war
Keeping pride and losing it
Was a balance
Was the way of war
And a feather was counted
Mounted on a curved stick
As oneÕs counted coup
Perhaps it is better to lose ones pride
Than to lose ones life
In the ever-lasting game of silence
That happens
When you go to
The other side of this
Where ghosts run through
The neither sided
No need to massacres
War was not always about killing
Everything in the way to more
This game was to war
As food was to hunting
Every life was respected
And taking was the other side to giving
Giving was in balance to Honouring
And Honouring was the respect earned
If war could count honourÕs winnings
From a poke or a prod or a slap
Through a great curved stick or a hand
Then perhaps
Respect for the living would return
And leave the future breathing
Like a false face mask
That is carved and cut
From a living tree
Whose life is the balance of healing
The mask holds no power
If the tree dies from that carved taking
These are the riderless horses
Whose ghosts run through them
Perhaps this song was written
Many years ago
But holds onto the echo today
That to steal ones horses, weapons,
Sacred vestments and the humiliation
Of a slap, a prod or a poke
Would be far better
Then the harsh loss of today
And the riderless horses
Whose ghosts run through them
But these things have changed
Forever
And the echo not resounding
Living beings are gone
Forever
Some tribes wiped out
Forever
Buffalo
Clean AirWaterTreesLandWaysTonguesSpeciesEarth
Even silence
Wastes away
In the deafening blare of war
That serves up Mother Earth
As the enemy
That seems to say
ÔEverything not nailed down
Must be consumed, controlled or dieÕ
Until the only thing left to count
Is whatÕs left after the gleaning
What ghosts are these
That sting my mind
That watch my relations
Consuming, controlled and dieing
And count as coup the dead and expiring
These are the riderless horses today
Whose ghosts run through
My mind.
LauraLee K. Harris
