Back and Beautiful

I'm back from a beautiful location where I enjoyed good friends. Here's a poem by Cochise.

When I was young I walked all over
this country, east and west, and saw
no other people than the Apaches.

After many summers I walked again

and found another race of people
had come to take it. How is it?

Why is it that the Apaches wait to die–

that they carry their lives on their fingernails?
They roam over the hills and plains
and want the heavens to fall on them.

The Apaches were once a great nation;

they are now but few, and because
of this they want to die and so
carry their lives on their fingernails.