Perhaps you think the creator has sent you here
To dispose of us as you see fit
If I thought you were sent by the creator
I might be induced to think you had a right to dispose of me

Do not misunderstand me but understand me fully
With reverence to my affection for the land
I never said the land was mine to do with as I choose
The one who has a right to dispose of it, is the one who has created it

I claim a right to live on my land
And accord you the privilege to return to yours

Brother we have listened to your talk
Coming from our father, the great white chief at Washington
And my people have called upon me to reply to you

And in the winds which pass through these aged pines
We hear the moanings of their departed ghosts
And if the voice of our people could have been heard
That act would never have been done

But alas though they stood around they could neither be seen nor heard
Their tears feel like drops of rain, I hear my voice in the depths of the forest
But no answering voice comes back to me, all is silent around me
My words therefore must be few, I can now say no more

He is silent, for he has nothing to answer
When the sun goes down