The Spirit of the Cimarron
Grasses thrive here.
Even through
Drought,
Winter,
Floods,
Where death tries to take it down,
It rises again.
It rises just to point its fingers up to the
Sky.
Trees are scarce here.
Though they are few,
They do not lose hope.
They huddle together.
They stand firm.
They are not taken over by the infinite sea of
Grass.
Rivers cut though the land here.
They twist
And turn.
Nothing can withhold their might.
Whether it be through dirt or stone
They will pass.
They will destroy.
Nothing can stop them
The eagle soars here.
He rides the winds
As if nothing can stop him.
He is a scout,
A messenger to the land.
His mighty,
Majestic
Call can be heard
A l l a r o u n d.
The horse gallops here.
He is ruler over the land.
The grasses are his mane.
The trees are his limbs.
His tail is the river.
His very voice is the cry
Of the eagle.
Here,
The Cimarron
Is his
Kingdom
He will not fall.
He is leader of the land.
Here, however, is not
Indestructible.
Man will demolish.
Consume.
Annihilate.
The immortal grasses
Will shrivel to dust.
The trees will fall
Worthy sentries lost to the axe.
The grand and powerful rivers
Will be blocked by impenetrable
Walls of rock.
Even the majestic eagle
Will be caged,
Chained. All pride
Stolen away.
But the horse will
Remain.
He may be roped.
Reined in.
Saddled.
But his spirit will
Remain.
The spirit of the Cimarron
Will not die.
It will not be demolished.
It will not be consumed.
It will not be annihilated.
It will most certainly
Not. Be. Broken.
The spirit of the Cimarron
Will live on.
He will be a living
Memory.
His body
The land
May not be present.
But he
The horse.
The spirit.
They will live
On.