Tomorrow I will dream of yesterday.

White Buffalo Woman’s robe covers the Great Mother.

Wind-swept birch mourns our lost youth,

Amber rafts afloat on swift waters.

We walked aged trail searching for our future.

Our path grew steep, earth moved, rocks failed.

No arm to lean upon nor bowl for tears.

Buffalo death overtook them now naked in the sun.

A child cries no meat on the fire.

They came with the sword, our children they stole,

To erase ancient tongue, their voices never to speak.

Marionettes cast from innocence.

Chained, no more to race the wind,

Our today promising no tomorrow.