Wounded Knee. No More Spirits in the Sky

I am an empty vessel for my people are no more,
Throughout the land of waving grass, out where the eagles soar.

I sit among the weeping willows, bound by a cattle rope,
My people are scattered to the winds, without a ray of hope.

My soul is kindled brightly, but without a sacred fire,
My heart is split asunder, my hopes and dreams are dire.

I am an empty vessel, no sacred songs to sing,
Among the dwellings of our people, life no more to bring.

The many tales of hope and cheer, that all my people spread,
Our sacred songs and happy smiles are forever lost and dead.

The life to which I go is not the one for me,
For it is bound with tears and sorrow, my soul will not be free.

I am an empty vessel, and must learn the White Man's ways,
No happy native children to soothe my final days.

No more spirits in the sky, no totems whisper near,
For even the sacred animals, have run away in fear.

My mate is dead, my children cry, at this place called Wounded Knee,
The soldiers have taken all we have in this land they call the free.

Some day I pray the White Man's ways, will shed the light of day,
For they have rounded up my people and taken them away.

I am an empty vessel, for my people are no more,
Throughout the land of waving grass, out where the eagles soar.