For ages long, my people have been Dwellers in this land; For ages viewed these mountains, Loved these mesas and these sands, That stretch afar and glisten, Glimmering in the sun As it lights the mighty canons Ere the weary day is done. Shall I, a patient dweller in this Land of fair blue skies, Tell something of their story while My shuttle swiftly flies? As I weave I’ll trace their journey, Devious, rough and wandering, Ere they reached the silent region Where the night stars seem to sing. When the myriads of them glitter Over peak and desert waste, Crossing which the silent runner and The gaunt of co-yo-tees haste. Shall I weave the zig-zag pathway Whence the sacred fire was born; And interweave the symbol of the God Who brought the corn— Of the Rain-god whose fierce anger Was appeased by sacred meal, And the trust that my brave people In him evermore shall feel? All this perhaps I might weave As the woof goes to and fro, Wafting as my shuttle passes, Humble hopes, and joys and care, Weaving closely, weaving slowly, While I watch the pattern grow; Showing something of my life: To the Spirit God a prayer. Grateful that he brought my people To the land of silence vast Taught them arts of peace and ended All their wanderings of the past. Deftly now I trace the figures, This of joy and that of woe; And I leave an open gate-way For the Dau to come and go.