We are the children, of the ancestors now long past. The ones that struggled to leave behind, a legacy for many generations to last. Hunted in the mighty forest, taking only their bow and spear. Seeking the powerful beautiful buffalo, and the ever graceful elusive deer.

Toiled in this Mother Earth, planting their tall corn in fields. It must feed the hunger of a nation, by means of that which the soil yields. Built their story fires in the night, voices lifted in ritual chants spoken. Giving thanks to the one Sky Father, for their simple gifts of gentle token.

You could hear rhythmic drums beat, in the distant lands across the skies. The resounding echo always returning, in the throws of the Ghost Dance cries. Honor the dreams of the ancient Elders, oh mightly Great Spirit, keep us free. Let us never forget what they gave, and the cost we paid at Wounded Knee. Make us worthy of this vision, winds of life blow softly on our soul. Walk this land in compassionate beauty. remember whom we are, Children of the Old.