Rondeau No 1

At Wounded Knee, we haunt the hill Where many moons ago we were killed As herds of buffalo wax and wane And big sky and silence don't profane But bless the land where once we fell. The Men and our beloved Sitting Bull Women and Young commune one and all; We love, we laugh and we dance for rain At Wounded Knee. Be not fooled by the silence of the hill For the air above our bones is not still But stirring among the oaks and grain Our fleeting spirits wait not in vain To arise and breathe again and we shall At Wounded Knee.