Echoes of the Heart

There are echoes I hear, old songs in the dark
of the Indian ways, of long ago days,
still heard all around, in our valley below...
Where their dreams of tomorrow, are still sung by the lark....
 
As the twilight would come, under a red setting sun,
with the fragrance of loam, and the tired walk done... 
they would bed under trees where the heather was strewn
they would burn a small fire, and prepare a warm meal,
with smoke in the breeze, while the whippoorwill's song
would, drift by the face of the moon

On their heels was the dust, in the noontime sun
They journeyed from tribes from the dusk of the past, 
wearing the colorful hope of tomorrow's new task 
Moving to where the buffalo roam
Then moving again, to find a new home

There are echoes I hear, old songs in the dark
of the Indian ways, of long ago days,
still heard all around, in our valley below...
Where their dreams of tomorrow, are still sung by the lark....

by Carrie Richards