I dreamt of a life where poverty was everywhere
The world and thousands of people were dying everyday
There was war after war
I even dreamt of the government corrupt
Indian children and women dying
From malnutrition and disease
They were living in cardboard houses
The Indian children committing suicide
before they turned of age
One of three dying this tragic way
And I had another dream about skies so black
that not one, cloud could be seen
on what was once a blue horizon
Then I awoke to reality and was secure
In my pine needle bed
In my house made of cardboard
Authors Note:
This is story of what I observed and how I lived in the fifties and sixties on the reservation.
