The beating of the drums,
the blazing of the fire,
horses on the run,
the setting of the sun.
The chill of the wind,
the roll of the hills,
the wave of the grass,
as the Indians pass.
The death of a child
the buffalo gone,
no life on the plains,
it begins to rain.
Their heads hanging low,
their hair in their face,
they walk very slow,
with the fall of the snow.
The bloom of the flowers,
the song of the birds,
the voice of the Spirit...
Listen, can you hear it?
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