A cold wind blew on the prairie on the day the last buffalo fell. A death wind for my people.

This nation is like a spring freshet; it overruns its banks and destroys all who are in its path.

I am a red man. If the Great Spirit had desired me to be a white man he would have made me so in the first place.

What does it matter how long I pray, so long as my prayers are answered?

They claim this mother of ours, the Earth, for their own use, and fence their neighbors away from her, and deface her with their buildings and their refuse.

They want us to give up another chunk of our tribal land. This is not the first time or the last time.

God made me an Indian.