Voices of the past are calling
as echoes of herds abound.
The soft sweet swish of the arrow
as the buffalo hits the ground.

The sounds of dancing with war paint
the settler's wagons are near
And the drums build up to a fury
drumming out any doubts or fears.

The feathers that are worn so proudly
speak of their victories past.
Eyes that light up in terror
as the enemy's guns start to blast.

Innocence, pride and glory;
centuries of freedom are gone.
Once a proud and happy people
Who's voice have been quiet too long.