RAIN SONG
27
The flower-people and the hungry grasses, The sky-flyers and the water-walkers— All, all are calling, calling, calling to thee!— Hear! Hear our many, many callings! Hah-yée! Hah-yó-ho-o-o-o! Hah-yó-ho-o-o-o!
Thick with hot dust the old men of the forestStand with bended heads, complaining wearily,Grumbling ever at the hot winds,Mumbling ever of the beating sun.Among the brittle pines the fires runWith many swift feet through the crackling bushes;And the deer, like whirling leaves in the wind,Scurry madly before their scorching breath.The sweet wet grass of our valley-meadowsIs blown by the hot winds into powder;And our ponies nibble at rustling rushes.Like the papoose that puts its hungry mouthTo the scrawny breast of an old squaw,The corn thirstily sucks at the earth—In the blistered earth there is dust, dust!And my brothers talk with thick hot tongues,And my people walk with skinny bellies,And die like the burning grass of the prairies!
Ai-yee! Thunderer, Spirit of the Big Waters, With parching mouths all the children of the earth— The many-foot-walkers and the belly-creepers, The timber-beasts and the all-over-the-earthwalkers— All, all are calling, calling, calling to thee!
