Beneath a washed-out sky
at the gritty edge
of sandpaper shadows.

On a high ledge of rock
Young-man-who-is-afraid-of-his-horses
looks out across the world.

The warm wind
stirs the eagle feathers
entwined in his hair.

His warpaint glistens
in the smouldering sun
like the blood of cavalry genocide.

The medicine is strong
crow feathers
and buffalo horn.

And in his head
the slow drum beats
his nations magic.

Brule Sioux warrior
Bluecoat invader
no parley-no pipe smoke.

The eagle talks
the deeds of wisdom
in and out of red man's vision.

There are many paths
many ways
to follow the bear.

Into the sacred lands
Grant's forces roam
with bayonets and sabres.

Young-man-who-is-afraid-of-his-horses
can do no more
but sees his culture breaking.

A people's dream dies here
a beautiful dream
and now the hoop of life is broken.

And the words of the great spirit
whistle in the wind
circled by the passage of time.

"The white men made many promises,
the only one they kept
was the taking of our land".

Young-man-who-is-afraid-of-his-horses
looks out across the world
where the eagle soars free.

"I shall not be there,
I shall rise up and pass.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee".