Barren no is the land that once flourished
through harsh and unpredictable weather.
Dusty is the floor, and deadly is the air that feels
Oh, how the years have rearranged the
gentle landscape that I once knew so well,
now I hear wind songs in a far-off distance
it sounds like and Indian’s cry.
I pray for the scattered clouds to release
Its cleansing laughter,
I lift my hands skyward to heal all that has
Stand tall my crimson mountain, and the
Sun will rise again.
Have faith my little cactus, for the rains
promise new life.
Hard times are before you, but soon
they will become smooth like the face
of a pebble, hidden on the rivers bottom.