There are lines upon his noble face,

Etched deeply by the air;

And wisdom in his gentle eyes

As wind blows through his hair.

A proud and grateful hunter;

A father and a brave,

A man festooned in feathered crown,

A horseman , not a slave.

There are lines upon his noble face,

Etched deeply by concern;

As white men raid his villages,

His wife and children burn.

A brave and mighty warrior,

A shaman and a chief,

A man consumed by hatred,

A man condemned through grief.

There are lines upon his noble face,

And anger in his heart,

He races with his men at arms,

Through prairies blown apart.

A proud and mighty warrior,

A father filled with hurt,

A chief no longer of a tribe

Where children can be heard.

The lines no longer matter,

Yet his people can be proud;

A chief, a brave, a warrior -

His name - Chief Long White Cloud.

A man who lead his bravest,

A man who faced white guns;

A man who fought on bravely

To die for his loved ones.

The lines remain and haunt us,

Their beauty proud and wise;

And if you look quite carefully -

Great Spirit fills his eyes.