From the Songs of the Passamaquoddy Indians
For we are the stars. For we sing.
For we sing with our light.
For we are birds made of fire.
For we spread our wings over the sky.
Our light is a voice.
We cut a road for the soul
for its journey through death.
For three of our number are hunters.
For these three hunt a bear.
For there never yet was a time
when these three did not hunt.
For we face the hills with disdain.
This is a song of the stars.
I do not know what to say
about this poem.
Is it conceivable that, had it been written by Davie,
by a minor modern, that is –
rather than by an anonymous ancient of the Passamaquoddy Indians of Canada,
then I would have passed it over for inclusion in this blog?
Then are aesthetics, too, subject to snobberies, even inverted snobberies?
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