The Indian Soldier

Among the dust, like a mystic swirl,
I saw his red eyes, its pain and sacrifice. 
The blazing fire and flying sparks, 
Its heat outside and fierceness in his build. 

Amidst the broken walls, 
In this desert of emotion, 
His gun fixed restlessly and thirsty, 
The weapons of a patriots mind

In that torso, ever admired, 
He placed pellets of autumn. 
His ice cold stare, sparkling, 
In the face  by dust and blood. 

The gun's spit penetrated, 
Right through his flesh. 
But it would hurt more, when
He sees his country quit. 

Now by my fireplace, I feel his warmth,
I see his open wounds and tears in fire. 
When we build Indian walls over there graveyards, 
Shouldn't  I stop just to sniff back a tear?