The sun slowly rises in the east as the morning mist gives way.
The generations gathered to celerbrate the cycles, to feast, dance and pray.
Our fathers kept tradition all arrived to this same hallowed ground.
Like all of their fathers before brave yet peaceful and profound.
Stolen was their native tradition all customs everything they owned.
Cast to the westward wind starved, poisened and without a home.
My fathers now have gone home to a place that cant be taken.
This generation has the duty to remember the Cherokee Nation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem