Across this wounded land,where the tears
of our ancestors made
stillborn forests grow,
we are walking.Over this fragile earth,
where shattered dreams
reemerged as secrecy,
we are walking.Up to the mesa tops,
where people became bluebirds,we are walking.
Along the Great River,
where ancestors listened to water songs,
we are walking.To the villages
where our people watched momentum die,we are
walking.Out of the dust of  minsery,we are making do
with scraps.Out  of our minds comes respect
for ourselves.We are walking,
day after day, year after year,even when
we would rather lie down.
                        By:Nancy Wood