Four paddles hit the water
The mountains grew in the day
Carrying a message to St. Louis
And grab a horse by the mane
Why don't we make a draft?
Lifted his rifle from his shoulder
In the first years of his life
Once walked more than two miles
Once walked more than two miles
The other three horses had their own reservation
After a month in the new city
I learned my lesson
The wind shifted and caught scent of the smoke
It doesn't matter now
I take your charges seriously
The green succumbed to the wilderness
The little creek meandered lazily
When it matters, enough light remains
The green succumbed to the wilderness
Lifted his rifle from his shoulder
In the first years of his life
Once walked more than two miles
Once walked more than two miles
Reach your hand out and listen
We're too few to complain
Ride up where you'll take your turn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem