Emily Pauline Johnson / Общества / Непрофесионални / Индианци

Malko vstrani ot savremennostta,no mislya,4e otklonenieto si zaslujava:))

The Trail of Tears
By Brian Childers

I look to the long road behind
My heart is heavy with my people’s sorrow
Tears of grief I weep - for all that we have lost
As we march ever farther from the land of our birth
On the Trail of Tears

Mile after mile and day after day
Our people are fewer with each rising sun
Disease and starvation they take their terrible toll
And though we suffer still we march on…
On the Trail of Tears

I watch my beloved weaken and fall
Upon the road like so many before…
With tears in my eyes I hold my wife to my breast
And in my arms she breathes her last…
On the Trail of Tears

Mile after mile and day after day
We march to a land promised us for all time
But I know that I can no longer go on
I know that is a land that I shall never see…
On the Trail of Tears

As my body - it falls to embrace the earth
My spirit - it soars to greet the sky
With my dying breath am I finally set free
To begin the very long journey towards home
On the Trail of Tears

Ghost Warriors
By Donald Hook

Shadows dance on canyon walls, They are shadows from my fire.
And from these walls Ghost Warriors call "Your history is a liar."
"Our sacred lands were stolen and this we can't forget."
"The spirits of our warriors who gave their lives for it."

But the wind whispers to me that the shadows I see are visions of when the west was young.
And the Indian danced around his council fire where prayers to the Great Spirit were sung.
They asked the Great Spirit to guide them in this their troubled time.
For the white man walked upon their land and said "This land is mine."

It was the search for yellow iron that became the red man's curse.
For the white man swarmed upon their land each fighting to be first.
And no amount of prayers could stop the coming flood.
Soon the yellow iron was bathed in Indian blood.

The Great Spirit couldn't help them they had to fight alone.
For the mountains and the desert that had always been their home.
The Indian was defeated and just seemed to fade away.
And his sacred lands were ravished it seemed in but a day.

The mountains were blasted open; the gold ripped from beneath the earth.
The wounded land lies silent now and has but little worth.
The Indian is gone forever from this land that once was his.
And no one seems to want it now not the way it is.

So now that you know their story, will you listen to the whispering wind?
The ghosts of ancient warriors are singing their songs again.
They're singing to the Great Spirit their sad and mournful prayers.
Asking Him to make whole again this land that once was theirs.

The Cry
By Karen Evans

He stands alone at the top of the hill
And sings his mournful cry,
His mate and cubs are missing
He's not certain why.

He had been out hunting
Was gone for only a day,
And hurried back with empty jaws
So scarce now was their prey.

He wasn't gone long
Eager to get home,
But the den was cold and empty
And he sensed something was wrong.

The smell of man was everywhere
With footprints in the dirt,
And blood shed from his family
He knew they had been hurt.

He sat and waited day by day
With hopes they would return,
There wasn't much he could do
Except quietly sit and yearn.

Why would man come all this way
To hunt and shoot them down,
To interrupt their quiet lives
When no harm had been done?

Their territory plainly marked
And not once did they stray,
For they would rather starve to death
Than to get in man's way.

The smell of chickens, cows and sheep
Were so tempting at times,
But instincts warned not to hunt them
Or they would lose their lives.

And so they lived a quiet life
Existing on small game,
Careful it was only wildlife
And nothing man had tamed.

So he could find no reason
For the blood shed on that day,
So peacefully they lived here
So far out of man's way.

Maybe they'd be coming back
His cubbies and his mate,
Wolves are mated once for life
So he would sit and wait.

That was many moons ago
And they have not come back,
But he will not stop hoping
For the reunion of his pack.

He now knows men are murderers
But still does not know why,
And every night he climbs his hill
And sings his mournful cry.

I,razbira se,klasikata

Should you ask me,
whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers,
With their frequent repetitions,
And their wild reverberations
As of thunder in the mountains?
I should answer, I should tell you...