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.

Words Do Not Pay For My Dead People.

We Damaged All The Big Guns We Could, And Carried Away The Powder And The Lead.

We Did Not Know There Were Other People Besides The Indian Until About One Hundred Winters Ago, When Some Men With White Faces Came To Our Country.

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