«Liberté! Sauvons la liberté! La liberté sauvera le reste!» Victor Hugo.


The Cult - Wild Hearted Son

Have we lost our way?...
We must return again to the call of nature...
This call is muted
with the hurts around us ...
Destruction of the good and bad ...
We must return, not as aliens, but as
Keepers of allthings that are a part of us ...
Some are forever gone ...
Others are crying out in despair ...
Just as our Ancestors kept the faith with all things
Great and Small ...
So must we be the guardians of the
Sun, the Moonand the Stars ...
It is because of them, and our respect
for their powers that we must raise
our voices to be heard ...
We are not just the Red Man, we are
Our fathers before us worshipped all things of nature ...
This is good, for Nature is the Heart of all things ...
All of us spring from Mother Earth and must
return toher bosom ...
If we poison Her, so will our future be poisoned ...
She will rebel against the hurts and we will be the losers ...
We must return ...

# Around The Campfire


Tears of Nation

I met a man of many colors
And a tear was upon his cheek.
"Old man" I ask,
"why do you cry
With such an agonizing weep?"

"Oh child" this man he says to me,
"My heart is broken in so many ways
That I believe this day to end
Will find me out stretched and far within
The encompassing earth of sin."

I sat down beside this man
And asked him "do not cry.
For what you think is so bad
That life will pass you by?"

He looks at me with such sad eyes.
And weeps ever more.
He holds his hands out to me
And alas, I do see
The anguish of his heart.

For his hands were different colors
One is red and the other white,
A leg he unclothed for me
Was as yellow as could be
And his other leg as black as night.

"I am the father of the world.
In case you do not know.
And my children have grown apart
And fight among themselves.

For when they do not get along
My arms and legs and hands and feet
Destroys the very life of me.
My hands of red and white
Will not feed this face of night.

And my legs of black and yellow,
Will not stand beneath this body
And support my heart and soul.
For they argue far too much,
And now I have grown old.

So here I sit in this haven
Of unwelcomeness.
And when this day ends,
A father I will not be.
For my children of many nations
Have forgotten how to accompany me.

Cultura nativa

Where Will Our Children Live...
A lonesome warrior stands in fear of what the future brings,
he will never hear the beating drums or the songs his brothers sing.
Our many nations once stood tall and ranged from shore to shore
but most are gone and few remain and the buffalo roam no more.
We shared our food and our land and gave with open hearts,
We wanted peace and love and hope, but all were torn apart.
All this was taken because we did not know what the white man had in store,
They killed our people and raped our lands and the buffalo roam no more.
But those of us who still remain hold our heads up high, and the spirits of
the elders flow through us as if they never died.
Our dreams will live on forever and our nations will be reborn, our bone and
beads and feathers all will be proudly worn.
If you listen close you will hear the drums and songs upon the winds,
and inthe distance you will see... the buffalo roam again.

Tribos indígenas americanas

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