My father was the first to see through the schemes of the white man.
Good words will not give me back my children.
The Indian race is waiting and praying.
When my young men began the killing, my heart was hurt.
We are going by you without fighting if you will let us, but we are going by you anyhow!
We live, we die, and like the grass and trees, renew ourselves from the soft earth of the grave. Stones crumble and decay, faiths grow old and they are forgotten, but new beliefs are born. The faith of the villages is dust now... but it will grow again... like the trees.