Always in a hurry going through the wilderness
An native Indian with long black hair and a painted horse
There is not even a rustling of the gentle wind and leaves
No whispering of any Indians riding horses
From this life I shall never take
The things of silver and gold I make
I wonder often what I shall own
In that other life, when I walk alone
When the great eagle has soared for its
last flight
The Indian spirit gave honor and affection
When its frame was shattered during the night
To mend its wings for good protection
And every pleading is a plea in vain
The Spirit will make all wrongs be right
Where you can over look the stars
With the Rendezvous by night.
Author:
Carolyn H. Davis (c)1999, Carolyn H. Davis
ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED |
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