Ghost Songs

He plays not for the buffalo, nor tepee’s on the plains No wistful, haunting melody, will his stolen past regain In hallowed place, this holy glade, he whistles for the wind To plays for lands with life renewed, and awful deeds rescind. No more will the Ghost dance sound, among the gathered clans No more will the young bucks roam, in raucous hunting bands, His way of life, with every breath, is lost upon the wind, His tribe, his life his people, more sinned against than sinned. He plays for peace, he plays for hope, forgotten days now gone, With saddened heart he plays for all, and everything he owned. And yet in that forgotten glade, the keening air remains, Recorded by the winds of change, and carried to the plains.