Rondeau #1

At Wounded Knee, we haunt the hill

Where many moons ago we were killed

As herds of buffalo wax and wane

And big sky and silence don't profane

But bless the land where once we fell. 

The Men and our beloved Sitting Bull

Women and Young commune one and all;

We love, we laugh and we dance for rain

   At Wounded Knee. 

Be not fooled by the silence of the hill

For the air above our bones is not still

But stirring among the oaks and grain

Our fleeting spirits wait not in vain

To arise and breathe again and we shall

   At Wounded Knee.