Our land, the land of the Apacheans, Surrounded by soft, white sand that looked like snow. The hills of pure gypsum stand firm in all directions, Watching, observing everything that leaves footprints on them. Footprints have walked the white dunes across millennia, But the hills have not forgotten even the whispers of the Apache. From our presence to our thoughts, the sand always hears and listens. Even if all the grains of white blow away, our stories Will cling on to what is left of our land. To others, it is a “national park,” but to the Apacheans, it is our home, Where we were born, where our culture rooted from, And how our stories came to be. We grew here, with our feet planted into the white sand, Memories and history formed every step we took. And to this day, as time passes, As unfamiliar footprints walk, As every memory of us fades, Every grain of sand will continue to tell the story of the Apacheans, Even if no one listens. Dunes of Sand by Deandrei Sespene ’31 65
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