From the top of the mountain looking down,

this indian brave, from the proud tribe’s Sioux,

saw the prairie empty of bison and teepees

and his heart ached as it became empty too,

but then, by the waters of that dying river,

a Cherokee maiden emerged, so beautiful,

it was soft waves coming together and then

like a bronze and tantalizing little figure

she was tall, over everything, a little star

reflecting the ray’s sun like something new

emerging from a river full of wrinkles, old,

an virgin appearing from a water cocoon.

Raising my eyes to all the cloudless skies,

I sent a prayer of thanks to my father Manitou

for let me see a wonder that no Medicine man

even if we wished to make one, he couldn’t,

not to create from the plain’s humble tribe

such ethereal being making my heart joyful,

yet, so distant from the top of the mountain

where this old brave is without a drop of youth,

longing to take in his arms that jewel below

and pressed her hard, until she become a tattoo

which no man can erase from my old chest but

that her love’ spear could always come through.

I was made of the finest smoke going up there,

taking a little Cherokee to the sky was this Sioux.