This land was theirs before this land was yours.
From Eastern Seaboard to the Western Shore.
Before the Pilgrims beached at Plymouth Rock,
The Redskinned Folk the Bering Strait had crossed.
They had no horse, yet fashioned spear, shaft, bow,
Sowed seed, caught fish and chased the buffalo.
They lived in wigwams – children, braves and squaws.
With tomahawks they fought their tribal wars.
They had their gods, priests, rituals and chants.
Around their totem poles they danced their dance.
They knew not firewater, money, guns.
They measured time by rise and set of sun.
This land was theirs, was theirs by right of birth.
This land was theirs because they got there first.
This land was theirs before this land was yours.
But then you came…this land was theirs no more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
True and sad, a beautiful poem. ~Ray