Torch

by

Richard Betts Jr.

We carry the torch to the setting sun.
We carry the torch for the forgotten ones.
We carry the torch so others may see
The untold stories of history.

Crosses that bear poetic names.
Children piled in shallow graves.
They wouldn't play the intruders' games,
So they died in the name of America's shame.

The proud tribe of the Cherokee
Battled relentlessly the wars and disease.
The tribe held out for one hundred years,
But one of every four died on the "Trail of Tears."

The Cheyenne - murdered at Sand Creek.
They had no chance, they were still asleep.
One hundred and five killed in their beds,
Only twenty-eight of the dead were men.

The Cheyenne - massacred again.
One hundred and three lie there dead.
Remember their stories, pray for their souls,
Only eleven men lie in those holes.

The Blackfeet - they were slaughtered, too.
The undefended camp was torn in two.
One hundred and seventy-three died that day;
Forty-six managed to escape.

There were ninety women and fifty kids,
Shot down for having red skin.
Thirty-three men were among those killed
And buried on an unknown hill.

The Apache did not escape the hand of death.
One hundred and forty-four gasped their last breath.
All women and children died at Camp Grant
Save for a boy and a very old man.

Why is it that all the books I read
Never told about the Native American dead?
Why didn't the films of my youth
Ever bother to show the awful truth?

At Wounded Knee, nearly three hundred slain.
The bodies spilled across the open plain.
Today I sit and cast a glance
Back at the sins of our nation's past.

So I beg you to carry the torch though your arms may ache.
Carry the torch, even when your heart may break.
For where crosses bear their poetic names,
Blood-red tears adorn those graves.

Dedicated to my grandfather - Clifford Collins.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at A Dreary Time of Year
by: Joyce Hemsley
from: Sunderland, England, UK

To visit all of Richard Betts Jr.'s poems, click HERE

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