By Bo Bearshield
To my relatives,
In my twenty-ninth winter it has become crystal clear.
Yet, it seems I have known all along.
A truth, I have come to hold dear.
As refreshing as an honor song.
The rhythm, the flow, indicative of its sanctity.
In these times, the world could never know.
A majority of society misunderstanding me.
Despite the storm, I know in my heart it is so.
Half this, half that, born with Lakota pride bursting at my seams.
It was never a choice.
My spirit nourished by Unci Maka for centuries.
It’s time to give the ancestors a voice.