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.