The Tragedy of Chief Joseph & The Nez Perce

I see my people bowed By hunger, Exhaustion, And sorrow. The west wind Bites. Our furs provide little warmth As the winds weave through our clothes, Its tendrils always finding a way. The snow drifts up high; We wade through it, Our feet leaden. We are tired, fleeing, Pursued by the white man Chasing, hunting us. Driven from our homes, we suffer. The whites are strong, Too strong to fight. Many have died, Fallen in the snow, Finding a final warmth before death as they freeze. We go on, always pursued Without hope. I see on the horizon The sun shining Still beautiful, unaware of the ugliness of Man. Its rays, Warm arms to hold me as I swoon. It hangs in the air like a beacon, And I say, “From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.”