Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds, and whose breath gives life to all the world, hear me:

I come before you, one of your many children.
I am small and weak.
I need your strength and wisdom.

Let me walk in beauty and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset.

Make my hands respect the things you have made, my ears sharp to hear your voice.

Make me wise, so that I may know the things you have taught my people, the lesson you have hidden in every leaf and rock.

I seek strength, not to be superior to my brother, but to be able to fight my greatest enemy - myself.

Make me ever ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes, so when life fades as a fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame.




"A people without a history is like wind on the buffalo grass." - Crazy Horse, Oglala Sioux




Brother Eagle, Sister Sky

How can you buy the sky? How can you own the wind and rain?

My Mother told me,

Every part of this earth is sacred to our people.

Every pine needle. Every sandy shore.

Every mist in the dark woods.

Every meadow and humming insect.

All are holy in the memory of our people.

My Father said to me,

I know the sap that courses through the trees as I know the blood that flows in my veins.

We are a part of the earth, and it is a part of us.

The perfumed flowers are our sisters.

The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers.

The rocky crests, the meadows, the ponies - all belong to the same family.

The voice of my ancestors said to me,

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not simply water, but the blood of your grandfather's grandfather.

Each ghostly reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of the memories in the life of our people.

The water's murmur is the voice of your great-great-grandmother.

The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst.

They carry our canoes and feed our children.

You must give to the rivers the kindness you would give to any brother.

The voice of my Grandfather said to me,

The air is precious. It shares its spirit with all the life it supports. The wind that gave me my first breath also receives my last sigh.

You must keep the land and air apart and sacred, as a place where one can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by meadow flowers.

When the last Red Man and Woman have vanished with their wilderness, and their memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prarie, will the shores and forests still be here?

Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?

My ancestors said to me, This we know:

The earth does not belong to us. We belong to the earth.

The voice of my Grandmother said to me:

Teach your children what you have been taught.

The earth is our mother.

What befalls the earth befalls all theh sons and daughters of the earth.

Hear my voice and the voice of my ancestors.

The destiny of your people is a mystery to us.

What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed?

What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men?

When the view of the ripe hills is blotted by talking wires?

Where will the thicket be? Gone.

Where will the eagle be? Gone!

And what will happen when we say good-bye to the swift pony and the hunt?

It will be the end of living and the beginning of survival.

This we know: All things are connected like the blood that unites us.

We did not weave the web of life, we are merely a strand in it.

Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves.

We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat.

If we sell you our land, care for it as we have cared for it.

Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it.

Preserve the land and the air and the rivers for your children's children and love it as we have loved it.

~~ Chief Seattle, 1850's






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