Washita

Bugles blare from morning's fog.
They pay The Garrey Owen.
In the snows of the cold moons they play.
Play for the son of the Morning Star.

Ghostly riders come as death.
Come from night's darkness.
Pale riders upon pale horses.
Horsemen of the apocalypse.

On a cold wind rises the cries of Washita.
The cries of the Cheyenne.
Of women and children.
The dead among the red snows.

Like tortured dreamers the nightmare always the same.
The pale riders coming without end, without mercy.
Mercurial figures in an American tale.
An American holocaust.

[...] Read more

poem by Jr Robert Sessions Smilie
Added by Poetry Lover
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