I Have Heard Talk And Talk, But

We Live, We Die, And Like The Grass And Trees, Renew Ourselves From The Soft Earth Of The Grave. Stones Crumble And Decay, Faiths Grow Old And They Are Forgotten, But New Beliefs Are Born. The Faith Of The Villages Is Dust Now... But It Will Grow Again... Like The Trees.

It Makes My Heart Sick When I Remember All The Good Words And The Broken Promises.

The Great Spirit Chief Who Rules Above All Will Smile Upon This Land... And This Time The Indian Race Is Waiting And Praying.

If The White Man Wants To Live In Peace With The Indian He Can Live In Peace.

I Know That My Race Must Change.