A Pyrrhic Glory
William J. Skislak II
[wskislak@netzero.net]
Oh Muse of History, my dearest Clio,
Forsake me not.
It was early that morning,
there was coolness in the air.
The 264 troopers buckled their shirts
foreseeing glory.
At the bottom of the hill,
beyond the twisting river red,
lay a seemingly sleeping village,
not a soul in their beds.
He gave out a cry,
the sound of a trumpet bellowed,
the quickening pace of his steed,
no need to turn to see his men follow.
Onward they rushed, saber in hand,
onward to glory they pushed.
But to their left a hive uncovered,
and to their right a swarm
smothered the hillside,
as the Queen stroked her village.
Stunned, he reared his stead,
surveying his meet,
helplessly in need.
Turning to his scout, he shouted,
"What do we do now?"
"What do you mean we white man?"
came the reply. Another pyrrhic glory.
How many children will we let die
before we put ourselves aside?
Poem © 2001 William J. Skislak II, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
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Our children are paying the price for our education. This
poem references the Battle at the Little Big Horn with the plight our
children are experiencing today. Like the Sioux nation (who won this
last battle against Manifest Destiny and for the survival of their
culture), our children are battling to keep the nurturing, education, and
protection of a society moving from an industrial heritage to the
post-industrial heritage of the information age. With the nuclear family
torn between work and family life values, the child is struggling to
survive.
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