Before the wheel, before the fire,
Before the blade cut through the briar.
The hills would breathe, the rivers speak,
And time moved slow, and strong, and deep.

No lines were drawn upon the land,
The bison roamed, unclaimed by man.
We walked like smoke, we sang with rain,
And left no scar, and bore no chain.

Before the tracks, before the claim,
Before the hunger, before the name.
The earth was whole, the sky was wide –
We lived, we died, but did not divide.

(A wind rises, ancient and wordless. Like memory returning.)

But now the wind speaks of the steel,
Of boots that march, of hands that steal.
The trees lean in, the wolves grow still –
Something comes to test our will.

The birds will fly, the bones will fall,
And some will never speak at all.

Before the tracks, there was a song –
No right, no wrong, just old and strong.
But songs can fade, and dust can rise…
Still, we remain – with watchful eyes.

We remember. We remain.