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Soador

Aqul que cree que tiene el mundo en sus manos,
Que porque tiene mucho dinero
O porque tiene mucha belleza,
Est bien equivocado
Porque el fuego est en el sol
Y no el agua fra
Pinsalo, pinsalo y dmelo
Como sueas con ser inmortal
Cuando apenas naces
Y como sueas
Como sueas con ser eminente
Cuando no eres nadie
Y como sueas
Aqul que cree que es dueo de todas las vidas
Que porque tiene un arma en su mano
O porque guarda otra en su espalda
Esta bien equivocado
Que le falta la ambicin
Para calmar el ansia
Pinsalo, pinsalo y dmelo

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song performed by Juanes
Added by Lucian Velea
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The cattle thief

They were coming across the prairie, they were
galloping hard and fast;
For the eyes of those desperate riders had sighted
their man at last--
Sighted him off to Eastward, where the Cree
encampment lay,
Where the cotton woods fringed the river, miles and
miles away.
Mistake him? Never! Mistake him? the famous
Eagle Chief!
That terror to all the settlers, that desperate Cattle
Thief--
That monstrous, fearless Indian, who lorded it over
the plain,
Who thieved and raided, and scouted, who rode like
a hurricane!
But they've tracked him across the prairie; they've
followed him hard and fast;
For those desperate English settlers have sighted
their man at last.

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poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Ce qui n'a pas encore de nom

Qui que tu sois, écoute : Il est.

Qu'est-il ?

Renonce !
L'ombre est la question, le monde est la réponse.
Il est. C'est le vivant, le vaste épanoui !
Ce que contemple au loin le soleil ébloui,
C'est lui. Les cieux, vous, nous, les étoiles, poussière !
Il est l'oeil gouffre, ouvert au fond de la lumière,
Vu par tous les flambeaux, senti par tous les nids,
D'où l'univers jaillit en rayons infinis.
Il regarde, et c'est tout. Voir suffit au sublime.
Il crée un monde rien qu'en voyant un abîme ;
Et cet être qui voit, ayant toujours été,
A toujours tout créé de toute éternité.
Quand la bouche d'en bas touche à ce nom suprême,
L'essai de la louange est presque lé blasphème.
Pas d'explication donc ! Fais mettre à genoux
Ta pensée, et deviens un regard, comme nous.

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poem by Victor Hugo
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Native pride

We sing We dance We share with one another We tell storys from are past this is native pride We love one another We care for one another not just are self but for all liviing things this is native pride We dance as one We sing as one this is native pride...

poem by Gerald Cree
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The Haunted Haven

Beyond the woods
The branching oak and canopy of leaves still abide
The bench is there
The leaves still fall
The cree still flows beneath the trees
The difference is
The oak is baren
The shiny bench is covered in moss
The leaves now lie beneath my feet
The place now lacks the presence of life
Though our laughter still echoes
Haunting the place of our childhood haven

poem by Humna Hamid
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The Jailers Door

My blood pressure went up today
When the jailer said walk this way

It wasn’t his tone of voice you see
Rather the steel door that closed
Behind me

An impromptu visit it would be
To see a brother of the Cree
Incarcerated for living mischievously

40 ounces and a stolen car
Won’t get you very far
The police in hot pursuit
Didn’t give a hoot

That Victor did not steel the car
He said the ride was all he took
Now that’s enough for the lawman’s hook
He’ll do two year for this silly charge

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poem by Nick krakana
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Returned To Say

When I face north a lost Cree
on some new shore puts a moccasin down,
rock in the light and noon for seeing,
he in a hurry and I beside him

It will be a long trip; he will be a new chief;
we have drunk new water from an unnamed stream;
under little dark trees he is to find a path
we both must travel because we have met.

Henceforth we gesture even by waiting;
there is a grain of sand on his knifeblade
so small he blows it and while his breathing
darkens the steel his become set

And start a new vision: the rest of his life.
We will mean what he does. Back of this page
the path turns north. We are looking for a sign.
Our moccasins do not mark the ground.

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poem by William Stafford
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Pitch Black

You awake from a nightmare
and find the room pitch black
You notice your not on a bed
instead, a cold slab of concrete

Where am I you think
you try to move your legs
But their chained to the concrete
you begin to panic

Outside, you hear children laughing
you think of your own, and start to cry
You hear footsteps pounding up stairs
you yank the chain, hoping it would break

Something hard hits what could be a door
you stop yanking the chain to listen
You hear two voices behind the assumed door, Males
their planning something but you cant understand

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poem by Cree Stewart
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Song - Seasons of Galloway

The fields of wheat glow gold and sway
Old mem’ries flock from everywhere
On summer winds they drift in waves
Back to her towns and villages

As guillemots crowd ragged cliffs
And herring shoal off Clanyard Bay
Her sons and daughters all come home
In dreams of their young Galloway

‘Til gales come howlin’ from the west
The Cree runs high beneath the bridge
And Falling leaves ski down the wind
And starlings swirl upon the wing

For summer’s gone and sadness swells
In waves that break in Sand Eel bay
But shades of autumn weave their spell
Amongst the lanes of Galloway

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poem by Jim Hogg
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En mai

Une sorte de verve étrange, point muette,
Point sourde, éclate et fait du printemps un poëte ;
Tout parle et tout écoute et tout aime à la fois ;
Et l'antre est une bouche et la source une voix ;
L'oiseau regarde ému l'oiselle intimidée,
Et dit : Si je faisais un nid ? c'est une idée !
Comme rêve un songeur le front sur l'oreiller,
La nature se sent en train de travailler,
Bégaie un idéal dans ses noirs dialogues,
Fait des strophes qui sont les chênes, des églogues
Qui sont les amandiers et les lilas en fleur,
Et se laisse railler par le merle siffleur ;
Il lui vient à l'esprit des nouveautés superbes ;
Elle mêle la folle avoine aux grandes herbes ;
Son poëme est la plaine où paissent les troupeaux ;
Savante, elle n'a pas de trêve et de repos
Jusqu'à ce qu'elle accouple et combine et confonde
L'encens et le poison dans la sève profonde ;
De la nuit monstrueuse elle tire le jour ;
Souvent avec la haine elle fait de l'amour ;

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poem by Victor Hugo
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