The fire crackling, it seems that it sings.
The old Indian keeps walking,
For your last shamanic journey.
His eyes tell stories,
On the face, the marks of life.
The old Indian, on top of the mountain,
Regrets the lost battle.
His land had been invaded,
His tribe decimated;
The feather, on the floor, fallen,
Reveals the stained stone.
Wounded but still alive,
The old Indian drags along;
Thanking the Great Spirit,
What did you learn on this journey?
he doesn’t understand why
Things happened like that.
But smiling he knows that
There is always a beginning and an end.
Whispering your last song,
He surrenders to the passage;
For the way of the heart,
I had already prepared him for this trip.
The drum then stops,
The forest is silent;
The fire is rare, it goes out;
No peeps.
There is no more pain or danger,
By letting the cougar body topple over.
For aided by your extra physical friends
The eagle soul projects itself into the air.
And the drum beats again,
For the fire of life is infinite.
And the birds sing again,
The song of the old Indian finding his tribe again.