Cry OF the Earth

         Between each distance lingers, underneath a pressurized

         Corrosion; of defeatism, percolate on fringes.

         From ceremonies of the storm: Spirit of the Tribe,

         Dance a new song; Drummer, drums, white buffalo

         Hums, once again having overthrown and pinned down

         On the third count, until flute Winds brings flute melodies.

         After fleeting evidence, hope takes flight:

         Like eagle flies high to summon with an eagle bone whistle

         Feathers gently glide through the air; then reborn in the

         Next life.  As distant calls in a serenade on the pond.

         Where hopes face off faith must be preserved.

         Like the snow on the mountain Mesa Peak; wild stallions  

         Ponies and colts huddle around the dust, as echo sounds

         The cicada brings night in with a gentle pitch.

         Travelers across their native lands; driven to extension

         by the blue eyes plan.  The Elder and Chiefs gather, their

         Kins leaves a trail of tears, that no one can understand

         that their spirit never dies it lives on in the rocks, forest,

        rivers, and mountains it murmurs, in the brooks and

        whispers in the trees their hearts are in the earth that

        We now walk on and their voices can never be silent.

        All things are connected.

        The Owl, wolf, eagle, bear, salmon, and Snake.

        Medicine power, the gathering of those keepers of the night.

        The earth is the Mother of all people, and all people should

        have all rights to it.  Among the people, friendship has

        built a bond of furious character.  There is no death only

        a change of worlds. Everything an Indian does is done in

        a circle, and that is because the power of the world always

        works in a circle.  Listen,