Those Old Ones followed me, the quiet girl with the long dark hair, The daughter of a warrior who wouldn’t give up. I wasn’t ready yet, to fling free… - Joy Harjo

I was anything but history. I was the wind.

This is my soul. It is a good soul. It tells me, “Come here, forgetful one.” And we sit together. We cook a little something to eat, then a sip of something sweet, for memory, for memory. This is my song. It is a good song. It walked forever the border of fire and water, climbed ribs of desire to sing to you. Its new wings quiver with vulnerability. Come lie next to me. Put your head here. My heart is close enough to sing.

The songs of the guardians of silence are the most powerful —

Girl-Warrior was lonely
For the poetry-talk of the Old Ones.
They spoke in metaphor,
A way of language that alerted her imagination
To the presence of mystery
Where there was always a light on in the mica windows
Of her soul's house
Where knowledge did not depend on words
Of faulty human languages.