Written by: George Zamalea

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

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!