Many long winters have passed
since I was a young brave.
My skills are now faded
with the light of my eyes.
In the great domain
of the Algonquin Tribes.
I hunted with my father
a wise and kind chief.
He taught me the love
of all the ways of the Great Spirit.
Who provides all we will ever need
to sustain our people.
The great buffalo
in their numbers too large to count
Would feed our people
until the end of all moon and stars.

Our ways were a gift of life
the ways of our lineage from start of days.
The newcomers took our land and our talk
The buffalo was wiped from the land
by their sticks of fire.
Their bodies left to rot in the sun.
What was the gift of Manitou they stole away.
The water in our rivers
is as poison from their waste.
The fish are sick and
cannot be eaten by our people.
What was our pride, they scorned.
Our children they took
to teach them new ways
Our blood they spilt
into the soil of our heritage.
Now we are imprisoned
on the land of our freedom.
I stay in my tipi old and frail
my face lined with many years.
I dream of a clear sky
an eagle flying to the mountain.
The herds of buffalo
thundering again on the plains.
To sit around the fire with the pipe again
telling the deeds of our forefathers.
No peace will ever rest my mind