This is no thanksgiving, No gifts or laughter,

Its a hidden story, of pain and disaster

I speak of many paths, full of tears and blood baths,

I speak for the victims of hatred and wrath.

This soil they grazed, these people they raised,

are drifting away and distraught by haze 

The large fields of corn, fresh crops that were born,

are now distant memories that leave them to mourn

The tall sycamore, grasslands they adored,

have now been replaced by cities and stores.

Their rituals and beliefs, their warriors and chiefs,

 their daughters, their sons are now drenched in grief.

They traveled with wisdom, they danced with freedom,

but now they're oppressed by industrial kingdoms.

Open your eyes, America's a lie,

they portray thanksgiving as turkey and pie.

Though we stand with pride, the truth is denied,

this Constitution is not on our side,

Forced into isolation, drowned by desolation, 

they can barely afford to leave the Reservation.

I tell you these facts, there are movements and acts,

the government ignores them to “keep things intact”.

Through all of these years, they still persevere,

so do not forget these trails flooded with tears

We pour our hearts out, and without a doubt,

this trail of tears is still in full route.