Cannon balls shower down

like blazing meteors hurled by the white man’s mighty God himself.

I scurry

through crumbled rocks and sizzling craters

through scorched earth and burned forests.

With one hand I carry my musket.

Frigid

and metallic.

The end of its barrel

is like a snake’s eyes, lifeless and unfeeling, right before it strikes you.

In the other hand, I hold my tomahawk.

Two delicate golden eagle feathers,

blessed by my father,

hang on the axe.

I feel the mercy of nature as I grip the warm oak hilt.

My paint remains despite the carnage.

Fierce strikes of red to show my ferocity.

The elaborate dabs of blue to show my great wisdom.

And the soft strokes of green to honor harmony amongst men.

Yet they still call me

a savage.

I rush toward the general, bullets grazing my skin.

Men desperately try to stop the river of blood escaping his wound.

I observe his pale face,

life dripping out like a faucet,

curious of his fate.

I do not mourn this man.

Because this is a war I yearn for both sides to lose.

For either side to be victorious will be

a loss for my people.

I dream that I am with my family.

Smiling, we tend to our blossoming fields of maize,

growing like blades of grass in a splendid meadow.

A tranquil breeze fills my lungs with brisk Spring air,

without a trace of smog or soot.

I sharpen my tomahawk,

but this blade won’t harm any man.

Instead, it’ll cut wood for our hearth.

My father is next to me,

proud and strong like I remember him.

No horrific sores on his body,

just his passionate pose,

excited to take on any challenge.

This would be my life

without the war.