this is our biggest fear
See him there, how he sits without even a breathe to move his chest. He sits stiller than the stones when not in the season of singing (for it is well known that the stones sing of what was, and the trees of what will be). He hears the trees, and understands their cry of warning. "The white man comes this way." they whisper. But he, the last of his kind, knows there is no escape. All of his brethren have left their land, HIS land, surrounded by the sea's frothy breathe. They have all gone, and ceased to exist.
See him there, how he bends low to the earth, begging the rocks to hear his tale. Begs them to sing of his people, and keep his record in their hearts. He thanks the rocks as they quiet their song. The fire before him roars as darkness sweeps over the land, bringing the world to a quiet still.
See him there, how his eyes glow with the firelight. How his parched mouth opens to let in the air. "Twelve times the moon has passed since the first of our kind left. Only one more shall pass before all are gone. Listen closely, all that care to hear."
See him there, how he speaks past the rising of the sun. How the memory of a warm fire lingers on his frail frame. As he finishes, the trees begin to whisper, "They are here."
See now, the white men moving over the landscape, looking to make their homes. Now one sees him. The white man calls to his friends and produces a sound stick. A stick that, with a single burst, will kill a man. Watch as the white men speak of things in a language he can't understand. Now, the stick is raised.
See him there, a final breathe escaping his lips. How he practically shakes with anticipation. How he practically begs for sweet salvation. Now, the unforgiving blast is scattered among the trees.
Listen to the words of the rocks, and the trees. They whisper stories of the old and new. They whisper of the brave mans sacrifice, of how he passed on his legacy.
See him there, how he bends low to the earth, begging the rocks to hear his tale. Begs them to sing of his people, and keep his record in their hearts. He thanks the rocks as they quiet their song. The fire before him roars as darkness sweeps over the land, bringing the world to a quiet still.
See him there, how his eyes glow with the firelight. How his parched mouth opens to let in the air. "Twelve times the moon has passed since the first of our kind left. Only one more shall pass before all are gone. Listen closely, all that care to hear."
See him there, how he speaks past the rising of the sun. How the memory of a warm fire lingers on his frail frame. As he finishes, the trees begin to whisper, "They are here."
See now, the white men moving over the landscape, looking to make their homes. Now one sees him. The white man calls to his friends and produces a sound stick. A stick that, with a single burst, will kill a man. Watch as the white men speak of things in a language he can't understand. Now, the stick is raised.
See him there, a final breathe escaping his lips. How he practically shakes with anticipation. How he practically begs for sweet salvation. Now, the unforgiving blast is scattered among the trees.
Listen to the words of the rocks, and the trees. They whisper stories of the old and new. They whisper of the brave mans sacrifice, of how he passed on his legacy.
the only tunes that we hear
