I Cured With The Power That Came

Now Suddenly There Was Nothing But A World Of Cloud, And We Three Were There Alone In The Middle Of A Great White Plain With Snowy Hills And Mountains Staring At Us; And It Was Very Still; But There Were Whispers.

I Looked About Me Once Again, And Suddenly The Dancing Horses Without Number Changed Into Animals Of Every Kind And Into All The Fowls That Are, And These Fled Back To The Four Quarters Of The World From Whence The Horses Came, And Vanished.

The Soldiers Did Go Away And Their Towns Were Torn Down; And In The Moon Of Falling Leaves (november), They Made A Treaty With Red Cloud That Said Our Country Would Be Ours As Long As Grass Should Grow And Water Flow.

The Life Of An Indian Is Like The Wings Of The Air. That Is Why You Notice The Hawk Knows How To Get His Prey. The Indian Is Like That. The Hawk Swoops Down On Its Prey, So Does The Indian. In His Lament He Is Like An Animal. For Instance, The Coyote Is Sly, So Is The Indian. The Eagle Is The Same. That Is Why The Indian Is Always Feathered Up, He Is A Relative To The Wings Of The Air.

I Did Not Know Then How Much Was Ended. When I Look Back Now From This High Hill Of My Old Age, I Can Still See The Butchered Women And Children Lying Heaped And Scattered All Along The Crooked Gulch As Plain As When I Saw Them With Eyes Still Young. And I Can See That Something Else Died There In The Bloody Mud, And Was Buried In The Blizzard. A People's Dream Died There. It Was A Beautiful Dream.