All Things Are Bound Together. All Things

Man Does Not Weave This Web Of Life. He Is Merely A Strand Of It. Whatever He Does To The Web, He Does To Himself.

Our Religion Is The Traditions Of Our Ancestors - The Dreams Of Our Old Men, Given Them In Solemn Hours Of The Night By The Great Spirit; And The Visions Of Our Sachems, And Is Written In The Hearts Of Our People.

There Is No Quiet Place In The White Man's Cities. No Place To Hear The Unfurling Of Leaves In Spring, Or The Rustle Of An Insect's Wings. But Perhaps It Is Because I Am A Savage And Do Not Understand. The Clatter Only Seems To Insult The Ears.

My Words Are Like The Stars That Never Change.

Only When The Last Tree Has Died And The Last River Has Been Poisoned And The Last Fish Has Been Caught Will We Realise That We Can Not Eat Money.