Words of Fire, Deeds of Blood

Robbie Robertson
Language: English

List of versions

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Parole di Hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekt, meglio conosciuto come Capo Giuseppe, o Giuseppe Il Giovane (1840–1904), capo della tribù Wal-lam-wat-kain (Wallowa) del popolo nativo dei Niimíipu (Nez Perce), originariamente abitanti nel nord-est dell’attuale Oregon.
Adattamento e musica di Robbie Robertson, dal disco “Music For the Native Americans” del 1994, con il gruppo The Red Road Ensemble.

Music For the Native Americans

Uno dei tanti, coraggiosi discorsi pronunciati da Hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekt, prima e dopo l’incredibile e sfortunata impresa del 1877 quando, dopo aver rifiutato la deportazione in Idaho ma al tempo stesso di scontrarsi con i bianchi, condusse la sua tribù in un’epica fuga verso il Canada, nel tentativo di raggiungere i Sioux di Tȟatȟáŋka Íyotake (Toro Seduto) che lì erano sconfinati qualche tempo prima. Braccati dall’esercito, i Niimíipu, militarmente organizzati da guerrieri come Toohoolhoolzote e Allalimya Takanin, vinsero molti confronti nonostante l’inferiorità numerica e tecnica. Poi, giunti a sole 40 miglia dal confine, furono fermati a Bear Paw Mountains e Hin-mah-too-yah-lat-kekt si arrese insieme alla maggior parte dei membri della sua tribù. Tuttavia il capo Peopeo Kiskiok Hihih e 150 guerrieri riuscirono a rompere l’accerchiamento e a rifugiarsi in Canada.
Perhaps you think the Creator sent you here
to dispose of us as you see fit.
If I thought you were sent by the Creator,
I might be induced to think you had a right to dispose of me.
Do not misunderstand me, but understand fully
with reference to my affection for the land.
I never said the land was mine to do with as I choose.
The one who has a right to dispose of it is the one who has created it.
I claim a right to live on my land and accord you the privilege to return to yours.
Brother, we have listened to your talk coming from the father in Washington,
and my people have called upon me to reply to you.
And in the winds which pass through these aged pines
we hear the moaning of their departed ghosts.
And if the voices of our people could have been heard,
that act would never have been done.
But alas, though they stood around,
they could neither be seen nor heard.
Their tears fell like drops of rain.
I hear my voice in the depths of the forest,
but no answering voice comes back to me.
All is silent around me.
My words must therefore be few. I can say no more.
He is silent, for he has nothing to answer when the sun goes down.

Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2014/1/23 - 11:32

Crazy Horse Memorial

Krzysiek Wrona - 2014/1/25 - 23:47

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