The voices of our land ride upon the wings of time

Echoing the drum through the whispering pine

Swirling over the grass of the wind-swept plain

To float on the mist of the welcomed rain

Telling of a quiet, gentle place in the days of long ago

The voices going back to where the blue corn grows

Listen closely to the old Grandfather’s tale

Of the elk, the wolf, and the call of the quail

Shades of laughter soon fill the crisp morning air

As Grandmother speaks in a voice so fair

She tells of her grandson and his first wooden bow

How the arrow fell to the ground when he first let it go

His Father will now want everyone to hear

How his brave Indian son brought down his first grizzly bear

Now Mother in her dress of soft, beaded leather

Will speak of the eagle and the power of the feather

She will talk of the fox, the way of the otter

The blanket she made for her new baby daughter

The aunts and the uncles will join in the talk

Remembering the day she began to walk

The voices will want us to know and will say with much pride

How they built their homes using the great buffalo’s hide

They’ll speak about the time of the cold winter’s snow

Recall the warmth of the oak and the embers soft glow

Each voice has a story that needs to be told

Stories that link the young with the old

So listen closely about their ways

For in our own unknown tomorrows

Lives the voice of our yesterdays.