Continuation of poem in progress as described below
I.
Enter the cave of the east wind
where shadows consume remorse.
Solstice flames flicker
and pictographs hunt.
Honor the stout heart,
the limbs and sinews,
that provided a good hunt:
"Your heart is my heart;
your blood is my blood;
your flesh will feed a proud people;
your spirit provides strength
for our clan."
My prayer is red,
the blood red of
the setting sun.
Other shadows flicker,
of my own birth
under a gold suburban sun.
Some shadows are vague,
diffuse at the edges,
almost forgotten.
Others still are haunted
and seem to dog my steps.
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