Indian Land

Come, my son, Look,

the sun rise,

And the mist in the sky rise,

In the soul virgin of all sins,

Our riches were there, Today,

bruised and ransacked.

Nothing changes,

Although everything seems to change,

Nothing changes in their strange ideas,

Of wanting to buy,

Or sell what is sacred to us.

Indian land where I was born,

Land, my land, My mother, my father, my children,

My words carried by the winds,

Are always nourishing fruits,

Always, they will remain benevolent.

Is it necessary to tell you?

Far from the law of the ephemeral,

That my land is a series of paintings,

A bouquet of flowers, songs and dances,

Of colors, perfumes, sometimes trances,

Of clear and limpid water of streams,

Of ardent passions nourished by the sap of the seasons.

Is it important to question,

Of the particular, singular tone,

That governs our sensibilities,

Our deep inspirations,

To respect the freshness of the air,

The buffalo of the great plains,

The horse galloping to lose breath,

The sovereign eagle of the mountains,

The beauty of rivers and streams,

The blood of our ancestors,

I cry over all these forces,

Becoming dramas.

With massacres,

they have scorned our brothers and sisters,

Defiled our ashes, extinguished the divine smoke of peace,

Still, my son, I hear their voices singing,

Like the newborn, I feel their hearts, In unison,

beating on the skins of the bison.

The spirit of our fathers, forever,

Will always live in the hearts of our mothers,

Perhaps, we are brothers, on this earth.