“Child of the sun,
in an alabaster robe,
sing to me, sing,
of your mother’s woe.”
“No mother,” he said,
with a shake of his head,
where shorn locks glistened,
a feather red. “My father,”
he cried, “made these wings for me.
I heeded not and fell into the sea.”
The sun split his face
to a burning flame
a crimson shadow
who was to blame? I stood
and wondered and saw in his eyes
a prairie on fire, a blazing sunrise.
And the buffalo ran, streaks on the plain,
and the sky resounded at the sound of the name
of the wild and free and the brave and those
who had lived on those hills and
in those canyons of old.
Ring out the trumpet! blow a hole in the sky
for the ones who were slaughtered,
whose children cried
in voices of woe
in alabaster robes to the sea
where they lie
Listen to me read “Child of the Sun.”
If you enjoyed “Child of the Sun,” check out more of my poetry!
All poetry is housed on The Poetry Deck.
You might especially enjoy my poem “Voices.”