At The Campfires Of The Setting Sun  ~Marge Tindal~  © 1999 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Down through the ages the stories come. Told by the campfires at the setting of the sun. A people so proud made to leave the land they love. It was not right...... For all the worth of me I cannot see whatever was gained by the men with skin so white. To take my people and herd them like cattle in the night... where they fell like wounded warriors No, it was not right. Read we now the legend of their trials upon the trail.... how many never made it and now wear the death veil. Buried along the way, their blood stains the land. Sent to meet their spirits driven by the white man's hand. The Trail Of Tears of the Cherokee still echos throughout the land... this is the land we walked and lay dying in the sand. If you go down to the river and see the blood-stained shore; the waters are also salted with tears that flow no more. All the tears of the Cherokee have flowed into the river of time... and to the pool of tears... I have added mine. People of my people, know that I remember... I cannot rest, I will not rest, until all know the legend and how it really was. I will tell my stories for all to see... So the stories will be remembered of the Great Cherokee. Come and sit by the campfire bring your native ones... we will sing praise to the Cherokee, the story has just begun. All Rights Reserved E-Mail Marge Frank Miller Fine Art  © To purchase his art

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Thanks to Marge for permission to use her poems

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