We fought hard today
Along the shallow bank
Of the Black River.
I killed many Wasichus,
Rubbed them out with my pistol,
My bow and arrows, tomahawk,
Fingers and teeth.
They died for yellow metal;
We, for the sacred hills
Of our grandfathers' spirits.
The Moon of Red Cherries peeks
At my smoke-hole. It is dark,
But the light is enough.
Crying Eagle talks of the battle,
How bad it went for us.
"Nineteen braves were killed,"
He says -- I did not count.
"And many more were wounded."
They will die tomorrow,
Or perhaps the next day.
Bear Without Fish sings a prayer;
He sings a song for the dead:
"Huoy-yuoy-ehe-uho-hey-yuoy-huoy!"
I am watching the Last Moon
And can not see Bear Without Fish,
But still I hear him, and know
He is making the Ghost Dance.
He sings of the Great Spirit,
How the Wanekia will come to us
And we will drive the Wasichus off.
The moon passes from my smoke-hole,
And a small, green hawk flys in,
An arrow in its claws, speaking
With the head of my grandfather.
"Be brave, Running Death," it says,
"For tomorrow is your last battle."
Its arrow falls through my breast
And is gone. "With this arrow,
Your spirit will find its way.
Hetchetu aloh, Running Death!"
Tomorrow is a good day to die.
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