Fire on the Bison's Back
It is written on the River
Who speaks an ancient tongue,
And held within the maw of Night
Who hides her secrets well.
It's in the Eagle's battle cry
And in the Lion's roar-
The flame that keeps the voice alive
Yet willingly consumes.
Wrought by stardust, housed in heaven:
The fire glowing bright-
It was stolen by the Bison
Whose pelt was painted white.
The fire burned upon its back
And crept into its spine,
Then twisted it in many ways
Until it told a rhyme.
Now Men were blind and could not speak
They only spoke through touch,
But when they felt the Bison's spine
They hurried it away.
When Bison told the trees of flame
They quaked down to their roots,
The River only paid an ear
Then carried on its course
Now flame was eating at its back-
Its time was running thin.
He spouted shouts up to the Night
Who loathed the thought of light.
He begged the beasts of sky and land
Who only shook their heads.
With no one left to help its cause
Poor Bison just collapsed.
The fire ripped its mangled form,
And light sparked from the flame.
It flooded land and filled the air
And shared the sky with night.
The fire burned in Man's dark eyes
And wrought their tongues anew.
They stole the fire; called it theirs
And used it as their own.
But Night and River knew the source-
The Beasts and Forest, too.
They turned their backs against the Men
Whose fire birthed their lies.