At times, old Cherwok, the indian,
Danced like a Sioux.
Lost in the spell of chanting
Cherokee prayers in worn out
Deer skin moccasins, tightly tied atop
Hand sewn breeches. Long hair plated
Then stiffened with wax.
The old Tibetan priest rose up to stand.
As in days of old, he walked a narrow path.
Bold, ever faithfu, courageous, and true .
He presented himself again and again
As a friend.
Sometimes, Cherwok became the slave man.
He shuddered from being beaten and sold.
Sometimes, he was just a begger,
Broken; lonely and cold.
Like a rock etched with crevices of time,
Cherwok was formed from particles of sand,
Then pressed into the palm of God's hand.
His form embodied memories.
All faces from forever.