In my country the most precious of gold,
Like sunlight is scattered though Black Hills.
South Dakata is brightened by it, the rivers,
Are renewed by rainclouds in autumn air.
‘Circle the wagons,’ cried the watchman,
When she came. And we did, as her
Voice echoed in our ears, cheering us on
As lightnings filled the air, in a drizzle.
On this post we have fixed a bison skull,
To watch the ghosts of fighting Indians,
Their dignity restored, and prairie-grass,
Reaches, to the sky with yellow fingers.
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