The agéd Eskimo, once "sangilak, " <br />the strongest of them all, prepares to die. <br />Today he will not shield a slanted eye, <br />nor starving in the evening stagger back. <br /> <br />Having fought a bear and years of cold, <br />fresh salmon never leave his fingertips, <br />and caribou blood never parts his lips. <br />And yet, he's lost his balance and his hold. <br /> <br />He's "pilitak, " of help, but little use. <br />So he lies on a bed of tundra ice, <br />awaiting "kadzait, " wandering wolves, his eyes <br />blind in the twilight like those of a moose. <br /> <br />Slow, pleasant, death will come at six or seven <br />in the wake of a fierce blizzard storm, <br />(hypothermia and crystal form) , <br />and it will be all he will know of heaven.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pilitak/
