Swirling tempest of dust pale the Autumn
afternoon sun, as the wind molded foothills
of sand shimmer like snow dappled, solitary
veiled figures dancing in the twilight
shadows of days end, waiting, waiting
for the night's silent run.
Shafts of soft evening sunlight silently impale this
land of fire, where centuries ago my ancestors freely
roamed with the wolf, the buffalo.
And the mighty eagle soared high on the sacred wind
along with the music from distant reed flutes which
flowed so soft and low.
Now the wolf and the buffalo are long gone,
the mighty eagle is seldom seen, and the flutes
are silent. The sacred wind moans from the cries
of my ancestral spirits for their land of fire and
no more will the buffalo roam or the mournful waling
of the wolf at the pale yellow moon, for all of this
has faded from this magical and legendary land known
as Tierra Del Fuego in the Southwest desert sand.