Paha-Sapa
Run! Run!
My pony sweet butterfly
And carry me over Paha-Sapa!
Run! Run!
My sweet butterfly
Where the feet cannot touch
The soft grass pregnant of floating-flitting
Gulches!
Run! Run!
My sweet butterfly
Don't let us to see all things come apart.
Paha-Sapa! Paha-Sapa!
My land, my sacred land still,
Where the ground hunting
Beating my body, so old and calm,
To them, when I am waiting
There to die!
Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2013
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