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Writer's pictureChristopher

The Old Paths Remain

B

eside branch and leaf,

a convergence of streams

meanders beneath,

Their ancestor’s dreams.


And I bathed in song

Listen to her whispered tone

And followed along

where the Indians roamed:


These valley and hills

in search of big game,

A conquest of kills

for a tribe with no name.


Quartz and rock,

chisel and point,

Hunting the flock

for blood to anoint,


the meal of the past

for a family well fed

in the mountains so vast,

before the Cherokee fled.




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