The natives are restless.
We have made them mad.
What we have done to them
Is, surely, quite sad.
They have been dancing
War dances all night
When comes the morning,
With bow and arrow will fight.
Though many will die,
As in battle, they must,
They fight to be free.
In pale face, they lost trust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem