The Humble Cheif who taught me to be a true man
instructed me in Great Spirit's plan,
set before my blinded eyes of youth
written in constellated truth.
I caught not the eagle feather
since the wind up and took it
in eventful gust;
Which I accepted in peddled thrust
as I passed by rows of July-growth corn husk...
for the Eagle's feather is not a must to touch
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem