Lullaby from Native Americans
Wild woman of the mountains,
running barefoot through the grass of summer,
your raven hair braided with sunlight,
and a touch of mischief in your eyes,
sing a song of freedom to the dark skies of isolation:
“I am a bluebird’s wing,
the voice of fire rising higher than the cloud point of summer rain.
I am the footstep you hear in darkness,
leading you out of the night. I am forgiveness and creation’s daughter.”
Wild woman of the mountains, swimming upriver against the current,
your body covered with leaves, the blood of otters flowing in your strong arms,
sing a lullaby to children yet unborn:
“I am mother to the whole earth,
daughter to the falling sky, sister to dreams of rising beyond life’s ordinary claims.
I am you inside of me. I ask:
‘Oh children of the coming generation, how will you live?”
Only those who hear the voice of the mountain
can sing the wild woman’s lullaby.
Only those who run barefoot through grass, and swim upriver,
can know the message in her heart.