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THE TWILIGHT
Sitting on a dusty street
The old warrior begs a drink
With honor no longer in question
He cares not what they think
Pride once held in high esteem
Stolen by trinkets and beads
Food no longer is consumed
Liquor meets all his needs
Beckon to the whiteman's boot
Heel scarred countless times
Those who watch with no protest
Give sanction to these crimes
Cruelness mixed with ridicule
Paid in redman's flesh
Chained by human suffering
These cultures will not mesh
Gone now is the admiration
He received as a young brave
Discarded like his tribal robes
There is no face to save
His people now sparsely scattered
Like windblown leaves in Fall
Often in the twilight hours
He still hears their fateful call
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