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Follow the typical signs, the hand-painted lines |
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Down prairie roads, pass the lone church spire |
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Pass the talking wire from where to who knows? |
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There's no way to divide the beauty of the sky |
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From the wild western plains |
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Where a man could drift, in legendary myth by roaming over spaces |
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The land was free and the price was right |
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Dakota on the wall is a white-robed woman, broad yet maidenly |
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Such power in her hand as she hails the wagon man's family |
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I see Indians that crawl through this mural that recalls our history |
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Who were the homestead wives? |
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Who were the gold rush brides? Does anybody know? |
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Do their works survive, their yellow fever lives in the pages they wrote? |
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The land was free, yet it cost their lives |
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In miner's lust for gold |
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A family's house was bought and sold, piece by piece |
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A widow staked her claim on a dollar and his name, so painfully |
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In letters mailed back home her eastern sisters |
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They would moan as they would read |
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Accounts of madness, childbirth, loneliness and grief |
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Accounts of madness, childbirth, loneliness and grief |
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Accounts of madness, childbirth, loneliness and grief |
