He leaves his fathers' graves, and his children s birthright is forgotten. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of the pond, the smell of the wind itself cleansed by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all things are the same breath - the animals, the trees, the man.
Tribe follows tribe, nations follow nations like the tides of the sea.
It is the order of nature, and regret is useless. Like a man who has been dying for many days, a man in your city is numb to the stench. To us, the ashes of our ancestors are sacred. A few more hours, a few more winters, and none of the children of the great tribes that once lived on this earth, or roamed in small bands in the woods, will be left to mourn the graves of the people once as powerful and hopeful as yours. The whites, too, shall pass - perhaps sooner than other tribes.