Speak to the Stones

When no one understands me
I go to the river to speak to the stones
When the wind carries my words away
I go to the graveyard to speak to the bones

There, in the spaces between the graves
The past is laid out in simple rows
Telling ancient stories our tribe no longer knows

What will become of us, my princess,
when our language is lost?
Who will describe the wild foothills
where the spring water flows?
Who will recall the spirits that dance in the meadows
but no one sees?

Stones are the bones of the mountain
They remember more than the trees