by Z. I. Sadeq
In the mist of emerald forests,
Upon banks of crimson creeks,
Beneath limbs of yellow tulipwood,
At the foot of smoky peaks,
A nomad king is standing there,
Above canoes that he once drug.
The war chief now commanding
Brave raiders run amok.
The wind it blows against them
Along the Little Tennessee,
They pay no mind–the wild rejects
The laws of his-story.
Wild roses dancing, enchanted
By the rhythm of the night.
For they are not yet conquered,
Bonfires blazing bright.