/lit/ - Literature

>>4825038
Fuck it,

My people, who the Wabanaki called maize, rose each passing season in the fields, ear by ear, row by golden-green row. The red children would play their games at our stalks, the red women would tell their hushed stories as they planted fish in the soil to feed our roots, and the red men would offer us to the wapiti deer for the hunt. That was before the new age, before the grand arrangement. Rubbed out were our friends the wabanaki and the Algonquin too, who took us for sustenance when they rode their birch canoes on the war path. The new men brought with them their metal, and their terrible industry. I am glad I lived in the time of our friends the Wabanaki and the Algonquin. I have seen a vision, it shows my children, eaten by the new men, refusing to be changed by them and refusing to accept the lifeless brown of other voyagers through their alien viscera. Expunged from there into the great copper labyrinth, making headway down waters, like the erased Algonquin in their birch canoes. Until they reach their terminus. There to be returned sterile and souless, forever losing their place in the great circle. It is good I will not live in those times. I will welcome the winter.