NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 148

By CRISOSTO APACHE A Prayer for Them, Ik ?‘dá beedaajindánde Our song is sung to the eastern mountain. Our refrains remain inside a new born child. In spring chirping flickers push a quiet song and we belong among the morning air. Our song is sung toward the southern mountain. Our youth in playful poises even the stems and height of yellow grasses. Our children build the frames of arbors that hold the trees together. Our song is sung to the western mountain. Our drum beat demands consent of elders, to reflect knowledge and hold better ways of life that carve the strength in their voices. 146 Our song is sung to the northern mountain. Our cries echo through looming snow fog and waiting valleys as ash is spread on frozen ground to muffles somber sighs and heavy songs. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 146 9/13/13 12:48 AM