Was I the wind in days gone bye
and known to blow their ships astray,
to scatter them to other shores
sending their traders far away.
What would your native sons have made
left free each passing century
leaving the flowing Prairie grass
the trees revered on land unpaved.
Sweet souls, wild, forever free
their red roots cut and others sown,
that paved the soil and cut the trees,
the spirit of the land unknown.
Erased beyond recalling now
the shapes of native memory
who knew the earth and spoke its name
their Genocide our history.
Could I return there once again
to time before their lives were spent
I’d whisper to the Elders there
to cast them from the continent.