Here I stand
On my land
Dying people
All around me
Here I stand
My bloody hand
Holding an arm of an Indian squaw
Her body ripped by a white man's sword
And her unborn child
Is lying beside her in the sand
This november morning
1864
When the Sand Creek reflected
The early rising sun
Still far off on the sandy ground
I heard thundering hooves
I saw white soldiers
Who were attacking our camp
Attacking our camp
Women, children, old men
Were living in the camp
Were living in the camp
Victorious soldiers
Riding away
The privates of the squaws
Stretched over their saddle bows
Those of the dead chiefs
They keep in their pockets
To sow some winter evening
Tobacco poaches out of them...
On my land
Dying people
All around me
Here I stand
My bloody hand
Holding an arm of an Indian squaw
Her body ripped by a white man's sword
And her unborn child
Is lying beside her in the sand
This november morning
1864
When the Sand Creek reflected
The early rising sun
Still far off on the sandy ground
I heard thundering hooves
I saw white soldiers
Who were attacking our camp
Attacking our camp
Women, children, old men
Were living in the camp
Were living in the camp
Victorious soldiers
Riding away
The privates of the squaws
Stretched over their saddle bows
Those of the dead chiefs
They keep in their pockets
To sow some winter evening
Tobacco poaches out of them...
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