The next song is a song written as a story. It's not a protest song which many
people think it seems to be. It's just a story about Indians and it's called
Indian Sunset.
As I awoke this evening with the wood smoke slowly clinging, like a gentle cobweb hanging upon a painted teepee.
Oh, I went to see my chieftain with my war lance and my woman, for he told us that the yellow moon would very soon be leaving.
Oh, this I can't believe I said, I can't believe our warlords are dead.
Oh, he would not leave the chosen ones to the buzzards and the soldiers' guns.
Oh, great father of the Eric war, ever since I was young.
I've read the writing of the smoke and breastfed on the sound of drums.
I've learned to hurl the tomahawk and ride the painted pony wild.
To run the gauntlet of the Sioux, to make a chieftain's daughter mine.
Now you ask that I should watch the red man's race be slowly crushed.
What kind of words are these to hear from yellow dog whom white men fear?
piano
Oh, I take only what is mine, Lord, my pony, my squirrel, my child.
Oh, I can't stay here to see you die, along with my tribe's pride.
I go to search for the yellow moon and the fathers of our sons.
Where the red sun sinks in the hills of gold and the healing waters run.
piano
Trampling down the prairie roads, leaving hoof tracks in the sand.
Those who wish to follow me, I welcome with my hands.
I heard from passing renegades, Geronimo was dead.
He'd been laying down his weapons when they filled him full of lead.
piano
piano
Now there seems no reason why I should carry on.
In this land that once was my land, I can't find a home.
It's lonely and it's quiet and the horse soldiers are coming.
And I think it's time I strung my bow and ceased my senseless running.
For soon I'll find the yellow moon along with my loved ones.
Where the buffaloes graze in clover fields without the sound of guns.
Where the red sun sinks at last into the hills of gold.
And peace to this young warrior comes with a bullet hole.
piano
piano