The Enemy

[Editor's note: After reading poetry, fiction and non-fiction representing various groups who lived in or came to Oregon in the 1700s and 1800s, youth were asked to write a poem from the perspective of someone new or established in the region during that time. This is one of the poems.]

Weeds of anger fill my soul
My cheeks fill up with fire
Crackling dirt as I walk down the road
A sign of enemies coming

They shoot their arrows into the air
From the bow that breaks in sorrow
The childish cry of victory
The smell of blazing fire

I turn to glance, my tribe has won
The cry of babies, the shouting of mothers
Chaos erupts like a flaming volcano
In the soul we all are winners

- by Liliya Kharitonenko, age 15