The red skin always backed down before the invading white man, as the early fog falls back in the morning in mountains before the sun. (Similarly see: shimmie horn triumph hotels). But the ashes of our parents are sagradas, their tombs are sacred ground, and for that reason these hills, these trees, this part of the world is sagrada for us. We know that the white man does not understand to us. He does not know to distinguish a part of the country of another one, since he is a stranger who arrives at night and undresses to the Earth than he wishes. The Earth is not its sister but her enemy, and it has dominated when it continues advancing. He back leaves the tombs of his parents without worrying.
He forgets so much the tombs his parents like the rights of his children. He treats his mother, the Earth, and to his brother, the air, like things to buy and to devastate, to sell them as if they were ewes or accounts of colors. Its voracity will finish devouring the Earth, not leaving back more desert. I do not know, but our race is different from yours. The single vision of your cities tortures the eyes of the red skin.
Perhaps it is because we are savages and we do not include/understand. There is no silence in the cities of the targets. There is no place where to listen how to the leaves of the trees in spring or the humming of the insects are abren. Perhaps it is only because I am a savage and I do not understand, but the noise of the cities solely offends our ears. As what it serves the life if we cannot listen to the solitary shout of the bird chotacabras, nor the nocturnal complaints of the frogs on the brink of madness the pool? I am a red skin and nothing I understand, but we loved the smooth rumor of the wind, that he caresses the surface of the stream, and the scent of the breeze, purified in the rain of or the noon dense one by the aroma of the pines.