Native American poetry
“There were but two beneath the sky
The thing I came to kill, and I.
I, under covert, quietly
Watched him sense eternity
From quivering brush to pointed nose
My gun to shoulder level rose
And then I felt (I could not see)
Far off a hunter watching me.
I slowly put my rifle by,
For there were two who had to die с
The thing I wished to kill,
and I. “
~Black Elk, of the Oglala Sioux 1863-1950
via~ Lana Duze