From Where The Sun Now

We Live, We Die, And Like The Grass And Trees, Renew Ourselves From The Soft Earth Of The Grave. Stones Crumble And Decay, Faiths Grow Old And They Are Forgotten, But New Beliefs Are Born. The Faith Of The Villages Is Dust Now... But It Will Grow Again... Like The Trees.

I Would Have Given My Own Life If I Could Have Undone The Killing Of White Men By My People.

I Will Speak With A Straight Tongue.

I Am Tired Of Talk That Comes To Nothing.

When I Think Of Our Condition, My Heart Is Heavy. I See Men Of My Own Race Treated As Outlaws And Driven From Country To Country, Or Shot Down Like Animals.