You pushed us down that dark cold trail,
by Debra Coppinger Hill
where the old and young ones cried;
And said this land was forever ours,
but that was only lies.
You slew us at the Sand Creek,
Washita and Wounded Knee,
Then gave us talking leaf promises,
that never came to be.
You tried to silence our Shamans,
but our Visions were worth the chance;
You chased us till we could not walk,
but you could not stop the dance.
You cannot kill the Power, the Earth;
no truer words were ever spoken,
For, we know if we are the Center,
the Circle of Life will not be broken.
So, when you come in search of us,
these sacred hills is where we are found,
Among the voices in the wind,
on this, our Holy Ground.
For you can slaughter our shadow-bodies,
bind our wings so we can’t fly,
But you can’t capture our Spirit,
and you, can’t make us die.