Song of the People


Song of the People:

Song of the People of the air,

the seas, the deserts, the mud.

Song of the river,

the lake, the plains, the valleys.

Song of the steppes,

the mountains, the stars.

Those who listen and see, we are the ice people.

We are the land where the partridge drums.

I clear a thicket to see my enemies,

People of the other side.

We are people of the other side. We are horns.

We are Elk People.

We are corn eaters. We use stones for cooking.

‘Man eaters’, white fish that glisten in the black sun.

We are the white clay people

Breathed to life by a creek.

People of the Bayou, the brush wood burns. We are

The true stewards of the earth.

We place locusts at the muddy lake.

Red crawfish people, sand, cave people.

We are the People of different speech.

Close to the mouth of the stream, all us red talkers.

Call us all home.

People, call us all home.

We are in that dwelling place.

We are they that have cooking vessels,

Stranger, shy fox, people of the south.

We are they.

We are they that make shell bead money.

Call us strong people.

We are eaters of dried salmon.

We are ‘anyone who wants to fight me all the time’.

We bask in the sun that warms your back.

Crow, sparrow hawk,

bird people, land of the clouds.

We are the red earth people.

Where are the people of the Lissums?

Where are the big-bellied people?

Where are the true people, the first people,

the people of origin?

Call us home.

People, call us all home.

We are people of the blue-green water.

Call us bowmen wearing something around the earth.

We are the peaceful ones, Call us

Well-mannered people, mountain people,

Campers at the opening of the circle.

We are people of the tall pines, dwellers at the end,

My end.

My people, my people,

My porcupine people, my white earth people,

Come to the river, come upstream

Ye people of the south wind,

People of the place of flint

where the great light was born.

My people, my people,

Ye people of the south wind,

Ye people of the great hares going in wet sand.

My gods.

My creatures.

My monsters and my things

that are wrought from such people.

Call my people home.

People, call my people home.

We stand about, we principled people,

strong people, people of the lake.

We Buffalo eaters

Or those who live on the flats.

Here are the people coming out.

Here are the people living in the uplands,

Genuine men.

These were the wild onions

And those are the warriors of the mountains.

Bad dust, wolf, cape people.

We are the broken talkers at the hills.

Dwellers of the spirit lake,

wild rice men we have


My body is a map of the trails that you carved.

Somewhere people of the peninsula cry of the crane and the pigeon and the great water and the planters by water. We are the muddy ones.

We people with wooden canoes. We are the mosquito creek people, but you are the mountains,

The mountains, calling my people home, your people home.

Call my people Home.

People, call my people home.

Great possessors of the flint, great wolf, we

Bog water people

At the place where the stones are gathered together.

Let the song be sung:

‘I love the heavens as I love the dust

‘And I love the people of the west.

‘I love the people of the tidewaters

‘And those who cultivate fields in an arroyo,

‘And those who fish in the freshwater pass,

‘And those who turn back,

‘And those mountain men,

‘And those along the great littorals,

‘And those not scattered,

‘And those scattered.

I scatter my own. I roast the seas.

I am black-watered. I am where the water boils.

I am upstream where people go against the current.

I am a boulder against the wind. I am

The people on the top of the hills. I am of the dust.

I am rising upland.

Oh man, oh woman, who are the ones

Who like to laugh?

Who are the bread people?

Who are the Honey eaters?

It forks on the white rocks of the descending

Ledge place, at the stone ledge place.

We are legend of the hare people. We are newly become.

Oh woman, oh man, sing the people home.

People, sing the people home.

I call to the seas and the rivers for you.

I call to the plains and the deserts for you.

People, people, bring yourselves home.

We are tribes of the great lakes.

We are carrying packs on our backs

For people are destroyers.

We are the people of the Fox,

Wearers of tattered robes,

The ones from the flat lake,

Wearers of poor robes

Where there is the big swamp.

We are the river people.

We are the drinking place.

Oh people of the place of fire, people

Of the possession of time,

people of the strong tides,

Keepers of the fire.

We fall into a current of water, we of the strong


My people my people

Reach for the shadow, touch the antelope,

Go downstream.

Reach out to the people of the yellow wood, the earth.

Reach out to the flatheads, those without brows.

Come to the river forkers.

Become the dwellers of the rocks.

Become the peninsula people.

The place of the stone is the place of the great

Hill people, my loves, my sweet and wonderful


I kiss the liver eaters.

I kiss the corn gatherers.

I kiss the people of the copper water

By the river bend among the red hills,

I kiss the dwellers of the prairie.

I kiss the dog-flank people.

At the confluent stream they all stay together.

They are all most human of people.

They live among the beavers, the jaguar, the snake,

The rat.

They live among the creatures of the river.

Oh people, people, call the people home.

Come home.

We kiss the great number of people.

We kiss those who live among the lakes,

Shooters among the tall grasses,

Dwellers among the tall grasses.

Watch the blue heron’s breeding place.

Watch the pine tree people.

Watch the little river.

We are brave.

We are the people of the little river, all of us.

Hold a cup.

We are those that hold a cup.

In the big arbor, hold your raccoon eyes

On the roaring waters.

We are the people of the raccoon eyes

affixed to roaring waters.

Do not run away, people of the sun,

Crooked mountain people,

all of the tribes situated

Further and further downstream.

We are all of us the ones,

and from us comes

Absurd grace from the earth’s above

And below

We empty-roomed ones,

We ones who eat light,

We collectors of things.

We are all of us the ones,

the first people,

Prime movers of stars.

Come home, come home,

A weary journey just

begun is always over before

It has begun.

Oroboros of time,

the tribes all sing

Their coming home song.

So sing, sing on,


All my people home.

About Paul Gordon 3009 Articles
Paul Gordon is the publisher and editor of iState.TV. He has published and edited newspapers, poetry magazines and online weekly magazines. He is the director of Social Cognito, an SEO/Web Marketing Company. You can reach Paul at

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