The Spirit of the Cimarron    

 

　 Grasses thrive here.    

 

  Even through    

 

  Drought,    

 

  Winter,    

 

  Floods,    

 

  Where death tries to take it down,    

 

  It rises again.    

 

  It rises just to point its fingers up to the    

 

  Sky.      

 

      Trees are scarce here.    

 

  Though they are few,    

 

  They do not lose hope.    

 

  They huddle together.    

 

  They stand firm.    

 

  They are not taken over by the infinite sea of    

 

  Grass.    

 

    Rivers cut though the land here.    

 

  They twist    

 

  And turn.    

 

  Nothing can withhold their might.    

 

  Whether it be through dirt or stone    

 

  They will pass.    

 

  They will destroy.    

 

  Nothing can stop them      

 

      The eagle soars here.    

 

  He rides the winds     As if nothing can stop him.    

 

  He is a scout,     A messenger to the land.    

 

  His mighty,     Majestic    

 

  Call can be heard     A l l  a r o u n d.    

 

    The horse gallops here.     He is ruler over the land.    

 

  The grasses are his mane.     The trees are his limbs.    

 

  His tail is the river.     His very voice is the cry    

 

  Of the eagle.     Here,    

 

  The Cimarron     Is his    

 

  Kingdom     He will not fall.    

 

  He is leader of the land.            

 

  Here, however, is not     Indestructible.    

 

  Man will demolish.     Consume.    

 

  Annihilate.     The immortal grasses    

 

  Will shrivel to dust.     The trees will fall    

 

  Worthy sentries lost to the axe.     The grand and powerful rivers    

 

  Will be blocked by impenetrable     Walls of rock.    

 

  Even the majestic eagle     Will be caged,    

 

  Chained. All pride     Stolen away.    

 

    But the horse will    

 

  Remain.     He may be roped.    

 

  Reined in.     Saddled.    

 

  But his spirit will     Remain.    

 

  The spirit of the Cimarron     Will not die.    

 

  It will not be demolished.       It will not be consumed.    

 

  It will not be annihilated.     It will most certainly    

 

  Not. Be. Broken.     The spirit of the Cimarron    

 

  Will live on.     He will be a living    

 

  Memory.     His body    

 

  The land     May not be present.    

 

  But he     The horse.    

 

  The spirit.     They will live    

 

  On.  

 

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