|
Fifty miles from Dakota territory |
|
Cheyenne scalp hangs from his belt |
|
Found him alone washing in the Bighorn |
|
a steady aim and he bagged his game |
|
Pale sun falls without contest |
|
Here is obedient darkness |
|
He will not return |
|
White Cadillac, white man at the wheel, |
|
white faces on the mountain, |
|
wounds that will never heal |
|
Black clouds overhead, old man says |
|
looks like rain |
|
Thieves' Road winds to the Black Hills sign |
|
says South Dakota, U.S.A. |
|
Grass plains stretch to the horizon, |
|
not a soul can be found on them |
|
They will not return |
|
Old rusted pickup and a mad dog in the yard, |
|
purple paint peels but fails to reveal |
|
the bitterness that grows inside |
|
Cloud of dust in the distance, |
|
strange knock beneath my hood |
|
Is it better to have words left unsaid |
|
than to have words misunderstood? |
|
Pale sun falls without contest |
|
Here is obedient darkness |
|
It will return |
|
I know it will return |
|
It will return |
