Dances with Wolves

Dances with Wolves

In the wide‑sprawled plains where the horizon unrolls,
A lone lieutenant strides in the dust of the south,
His heart a compass set further than his will —
A shoreless page in the saga of the white Creedle.

A silent edge of snow glimmers on the horizon,
The wolves, sovereigns of that unfettered space,
Gaze like old‑minded magistrates from the distant past,
While the soldier sought only a truth that no blade could shape.

Through breath of elder winds and prairie hymns he wanders,
His uniform clinging to his doubts like a wet coat;
The tribe answers in crooks of their native tongue,
And he drinks from the very marrow of the land.

From the purling of a firefly in May to the clack of boot,
He learns that all life sings a rhythm beneath the sky;
In the rain‑slick field, a wolf in his arms announces,
"Dance with us, and you shall learn to feel the same."

The film itself becomes a soft, unpatronising note,
A patchwork of cinematic skins and cinematic feel;
The wilderness, a quiet outlaw in the alley of heart,
A voice that keeps the soul from communal bearing.

Now, with the same way of “his own kind”, he finds the walls:
The solemn creed of a white soldier dissolving in the late
and the past, ushering, perhaps, the last step of the wolf,
In the breath of harmonious solitude, the world erupts:
The wild, the people and an America that is not yet finished.