Death walks like a shadow among my kin;
And swift are the feet of the flying years
That cover Wakawa with frost and tears,
And leave their tracks on his wrinkled skin.
Wakawa, the voice of the years that are gone
Will follow thy feet like the shadow of death,
Till the paths of the forest and desert lone
Shall forget thy footsteps. O living breath,
Whence are thou, and whither so soon to fly?
And whence are the years? Shall I overtake
Their flying feet in the star-lit sky?
From his last long sleep will the warrior wake?
Will the morning break in Wakawa's tomb,
As it breaks and glows in the eastern skies?
Is it true?--will the spirits of kinsmen come
And bid the bones of the brave arise?
Wakawa, Wakawa, for thee the years
Are red with blood and bitter with tears.
Gone--brothers, and daughters, and wife--all gone
That are kin to Wakawa--but one--but one--
Wakinyan Tanka--undutiful son!
And he estranged from his father's _tee_,
Will never return till the chief shall die.
And what cares he for his father's grief?
He will smile at my death--it will make him chief.
Woe burns in my bosom. Ho, warriors--Ho!
Raise the song of red war; for your chief must go
To drown his grief in the blood of the foe!
I shall fall.
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