Spirits In The Sky Poem by Clive Blake

I feel my spirit gradually ebbing away,
So, when I eventually lie down to die,
Will my ancestors save a place for me
Around the great camp-fire in the sky?
Will the buffalo be grazing there
In herds too numerous to count?
Will my faithful white stallion be waiting,
For me to, once more, remount?
Will the eagles soar high above my head?
Will the bear and wolf run free?
Will the plains grasses sigh in the breeze,
In an ever changing symphony?
Will the flow of cool mountain streams
Cleanse all regrets from my anguished mind
Will the peace I am desperately seeking,
Be there for me to find?