Under the same old corn blue moon
There in the canvas plays a tune
We dance by the firelight, paint our faces
But does that make us lower than all races?
We all have dreams
Far and small
We all plant seeds
Though you Englishers do it wrong
And we all triumph
And we all bleed
Isn't it true, though?
That we all dream
And we'll play a single note
When the rooster crows
Try to imagine a Native American saying this poem this in the 1600's, when the immigrants from England invaded their land and were sought to hate the natives. The Indian is dreaming of the day when we'll all sing the same note. When the rooster crows, morning arrives, and we'll wake up to equality.
