The sun rose as any other sunrise,
like a light speck at the end of a tunnel.
The light caresses my knuckles. Needlessly,
to say it is yesterdays light. Not yesterday
as in the day before but like the days lost
as dust is in the wind.
The tires slap the cracks
upon the road surface
and my song dispels.
Not like driving someone away or vanishing
but more like the retelling of my young life’s memory
or my wrist movements or the location of my drum.
Each morning I drive towards the wake of sunlight
and each morning, the light hides the shadows
of mountains which are supposed to remain there.
Every part of my life passes. The longer I live
out here and away, Ik ł‘dá beedaajindánde— People of Long Ago,
the lesser the light shines as them.
I strive to caress this light
but somehow it always captures me first.
I am lost in the ruins of elongating shadow
against the western horizon,
the home of thunder and lightning.
Each morning I set out to greet them
and every morning,
I run towards them, Ik ł‘dá beedaajindánde— People of Long Ago.
I want them to save me from my solitary flight
and keep me tapping my drum.
Save me from this endless run.