Some Of You Think An Indian Is

Big Name Often Stands On Small Legs.

We Live, We Die, And Like The Grass And Trees, Renew Ourselves From The Soft Earth Of The Grave. Stones Crumble And Decay, Faiths Grow Old And They Are Forgotten, But New Beliefs Are Born. The Faith Of The Villages Is Dust Now... But It Will Grow Again... Like The Trees.

From Where The Sun Now Stands I Will Fight No More.

Cursed Be He That Scalps The Reputation Of The Dead.

I Am Tired Of Talk That Comes To Nothing.