I am an American: Native Indian

I am of the soil, not by the map's decree,
Not defined by borders, nor by a distant decree.
My spirit echoes through ancient hills,
A heartbeat in the land, where tradition spills.

Not for the stars and stripes, my allegiance sways,
But for the whispers of winds, and ancient sunlit days.
I am not American by lines drawn on paper,
But a child of the earth, a silent skyscraper.

When the eagle soars, I see a kinship there,
Not as a symbol, but a fellow in the air.
In rivers that carve through the heart of the land,
I trace the veins of ancestors, an unbroken strand.

I stand on this soil, not as an owner or heir,
But as a custodian, a humble, mindful heir.
For the stories told by firelight, not by neon glare,
Shape my roots, weave the fabric I wear.

The echoes of drums, not the beat of a drumroll,
Resound in my soul, where true freedom strolls.
I am not American by mere happenstance,
But a part of the tapestry, a dance in the expanse.

In the tapestry of time, where history is spun,
I am not a label, not merely a son.
I am the whispering leaves, the sacred stream,
An American not by label, but by the land's dream.