She stands and looks toward a distant peak
with thoughts and dreams a thousand miles away,
her forebears’ tribal spirits softly speak;
she listens for the words they have to say.
Her ancestors lived on that rugged land
they fought to win their sacred right to stay,
a simple life was all that they had planned;
she listens for the words they need to say.
She dreams the sweetest wood smoke rising high
and sees the barefoot children run and play,
round totem poles that try to touch the sky;
she listens for the words they long to say.
A white man’s house, her spirit far away,
she cannot hear the words they have to say.
Bronze trophy winner
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