The mohawk rider,

The brave;

Alone in the great plains,

No slave.



The lonesome cowboy,

The lame;

Forever seeking a land,

Bringing shame.


Follow the buffalo

Until the winter closes in,

Then rest in houses

Made of skins.


From this good earth

We cannot live as strangers,

Free to walk these lands

Banish tyranny that maims us.


When Cortez made his first cut

We bled as one nation,

Till the last drop leaves

We shall fight for our dreams.


To think of history

Smouldering still like ash,

When once we shone like the sun

And will again.

Standing true in the madness man made,

Traditions vital, not to fade.


There is no justice without forgiveness.

The words of our ancestors

Are caught in the wind,

Speaking from the hidden valleys,

An old drum sounding from within.


In this great expanse of the human heart

May we as one claim only peace

And end the war of him.







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