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I see as in a vision the dying spark of our council fires,
the ashes cold and white.
I see no longer the curling smoke rising from our lodge poles.
I hear no longer the songs of women as they prepare the meal.
The antelope have gone.
The buffalo wallos are empty.
Only the wail of the coyote is heard....
We are like birds
with a broken wing.

~ Chief Plenty-Coups ~




Through eagels' eyes



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