They say an Indian woman sits in the moonlight
She picks up her quills, sewing into the night
Near her the fire blazes,
The flame burns so bright.
Her dog lays beside her
Its eyes watching tight.
And this Indian woman, rises, sets down her work
Like a ghost glides to the kettle, stirring her herbs.
Up goes the woman’s dog
Unraveling her quilt
She returns to the fire
The dog feels no guilt.
And on and on
For thousands of years
For as fast as the woman sews
The faster he tears
Woe to the world if the woman completed.
For when her work’s done the world ends in that instant.
Oh! to our dismay,
Or so the Sioux say.