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Robertson Robbie Music For The Native Americans Words Of Fire, Deeds Of Blood Perhaps you think the Creator 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 reference 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 or heard Their tears fell 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 must therefore be few I can now say no more He is silent for he has nothing to answer when the sun goes down |
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