A Poem As Yet With No Title

The white men came.

They offered blankets as gifts,

And clothes.

But as gifts these were not meant.

They were a double edged blade.

The white men, smiling,

Handed over disease.

In the winter nights,

The people burrowed in,

Glad for the warmth the white men gave.

Mere days later, no one was left.

Boils appeared on their skins,

They could not get warm enough

Or else cool down.

There was no energy to hunt,

Nor to pick fruits nor to cook.

A few mustered the strength for a fire,

Though soon they ran out of wood.

No one spoke, they had no voices left.

Those that could,

Spoke with their hands,

The motions feeble as with age.

The Great Spirit took the most of them, but

No one was left to bury the dead.

Though the leader of the group

Tried to raise their souls to the Great One,

Tried to unite their bodies with the Earth,

He could not get them all.

And now those who travel by

Best not rest there at night.

For unreleased spirits roam this earth

Seeking those who may unlock their cells.

But that art was all but lost,

And these souls must wait

An eternity for their release.