Questa lettera fu scritta dal capo dei Pellirossa Capriolo Zoppo nel 1854 al Presidente degli Stati Uniti Franklin Pirce.
Il documento qui integralmente riprodotto è senz’altro una delle più elevate espressioni di sintonia dell’uomo col creato ed esprime la ricchezza universale dei “popoli nativi”, dei veri “indigeni” di ogni luogo della terra ed è la risposta che il Capo Tribù di Duwamish inviò al Presidente degli Stati Uniti che chiedeva di acquistare la terra dei Pellerossa.
"Il grande Capo che sta a Washington ci manda a dire che vuole comprare la nostra terra. Il grande Capo ci manda anche espressioni di amicizia e di buona volontà. Ciò è gentile da parte sua, poiché sappiamo che egli ha bisogno della nostra amicizia in contraccambio. Ma noi consideriamo questa offerta, perché sappiamo che se non venderemo, l’uomo bianco potrebbe venire con i fucili a prendere la nostra terra. Quello che dice il Capo Seattle, il grande Capo di Washington può considerarlo sicuro, come i nostri fratelli bianchi possono considerare sicuro il ritorno delle stagioni.
Le mie parole sono come le stelle e non tramontano. Ma come potete comprare o vendere il cielo, il colore della terra? Questa idea è strana per noi. Noi non siamo proprietari della freschezza dell’aria o dello scintillio dell’acqua: come potete comprarli da noi?
Ogni parte di questa terra è sacra al mio popolo. Ogni ago scintillante di pino, ogni spiaggia sabbiosa, ogni goccia di rugiada nei boschi oscuri, ogni insetto ronzante è sacro nella memoria e nella esperienza del mio popolo. La linfa che circola negli alberi porta le memorie dell’uomo rosso. I morti dell’uomo bianco dimenticano il paese della loro nascita quando vanno a camminare tra le stelle. Noi siamo parte della terra ed essa è parte di noi. I fiori profumati sono nostri fratelli. Il cervo, il cavallo e l’aquila sono nostri fratelli. Le creste rocciose, le essenze dei prati, il calore del corpo dei cavalli e l’uomo, tutti appartengono alla stessa famiglia. Perciò. Quando il grande Capo che sta a Washington ci manda a dire che vuole comprare la nostra terra, ci chiede molto. Egli ci manda a dire che ci riserverà un posto dove potremo vivere comodamente per conto nostro. Egli sarà nostro padre e noi saremo i suoi figli. Quindi noi considereremo la Vostra offerta di acquisto. Ma non sarà facile perché questa terra per noi è sacra. L’acqua scintillante che scorre nei torrenti e nei fiumi non è soltanto acqua ma è il sangue dei nostri antenati. Se noi vi vendiamo la terra, voi dovete ricordare che essa è sacra e dovete insegnare ai vostri figli che essa è sacra e che ogni tremolante riflesso nell’acqua limpida del lago parla di eventi e di ricordi, nella vita del mio popolo.
Il mormorio dell’acqua è la voce del padre, di mio padre. I fiumi sono i nostri fratelli ed essi saziano la nostra sete. I fiumi portano le nostre canoe e nutrono i nostri figli. Se vi vendiamo la terra, voi dovete ricordare e insegnare ai vostri figli che i fiumi sono i nostri fratelli ed anche i vostri e dovete perciò usare con i fiumi la gentilezza che userete con un fratello.
L’uomo rosso si è sempre ritirato davanti all’avanzata dell’uomo bianco, come la rugiada sulle montagne si ritira davanti al sole del mattino. Ma le ceneri dei nostri padri sono sacre. Le loro tombe sono terreno sacro e così queste colline e questi alberi. Questa porzione di terra è consacrata, per noi. Noi sappiamo che l’uomo bianco non capisce i nostri pensieri. Una porzione della terra è la stessa per lui come un’altra, perché egli è uno straniero che viene nella notte e prende dalla terra qualunque cosa gli serve. La terra non è suo fratello, ma suo nemico e quando la ha conquistata, egli si sposta, lascia le tombe dei suoi padri dietro di lui e non se ne cura. Le tombe dei suoi padri e i diritti dei suoi figli vengono dimenticati. Egli tratta sua madre, la terra e suo fratello, il cielo, come cose che possono essere comprate, sfruttate e vendute, come fossero pecore o perline colorate.
IL suo appetito divorerà la terra e lascerà dietro solo un deserto.
Non so, i nostri pensieri sono differenti dai vostri pensieri. La vista delle vostre città ferisce gli occhi dell’uomo rosso. Ma forse ciò avviene perché l’uomo rosso è un selvaggio e non capisce.
Non c’è alcun posto quieto nelle città dell’uomo bianco. Alcun posto in cui sentire lo stormire di foglie in primavera o il ronzio delle ali degli insetti. Ma forse io sono un selvaggio e non capisco. Il rumore della città ci sembra soltanto che ferisca gli orecchi. E che cosa è mai la vita, se un uomo non può ascoltare il grido solitario del succiacapre o discorsi delle rane attorno ad uno stagno di notte?
Ma io sono un uomo rosso e non capisco. L’indiano preferisce il dolce rumore del vento che soffia sulla superficie del lago o l’odore del vento stesso, pulito dalla pioggia o profumato dagli aghi di pino.
L’aria è preziosa per l’uomo rosso poiché tutte le cose partecipano dello stesso respiro.
L’uomo bianco sembra non accorgersi dell’aria che respira e come un uomo da molti giorni in agonia, egli è insensibile alla puzza.
Ma se noi vi vendiamo la nostra terra, voi dovete ricordare che l’aria è preziosa per noi e che l’aria ha lo stesso spirito della vita che essa sostiene. Il vento, che ha dato ai nostri padri il primo respiro, riceve anche il loro ultimo respiro. E il vento deve dare anche ai vostri figli lo spirito della vita. E se vi vendiamo la nostra terra, voi dovete tenerla da parte e come sacra, come un posto dove anche l’uomo bianco possa andare a gustare il vento addolcito dai fiori dei prati.
Perciò noi consideriamo l’offerta di comprare la nostra terra, ma se decideremo di accettarla, io porrò una condizione. L’uomo bianco deve trattare gli animali di questa terra come fratelli. Io sono un selvaggio e non capisco altri pensieri. Ho visto migliaia di bisonti che marcivano sulla prateria, lasciati lì dall’uomo bianco che gli aveva sparato dal treno che passava. Io sono un selvaggio e non posso capire come un cavallo di ferro sbuffante possa essere più importante del bisonte, che noi uccidiamo solo per sopravvivere.
Che cosa è l’uomo senza gli animali? Se non ce ne fossero più gli indiani morirebbero di solitudine. Perché qualunque cosa capiti agli animali presto capiterà all’uomo. Tutte le cose sono collegate.
Voi dovete insegnare ai vostri figli che il terreno sotto i loro piedi è la cenere dei nostri antenati. Affinché rispettino la terra, dite ai vostri figli che la terra è ricca delle vite del nostro popolo. Insegnate ai vostri figli quello che noi abbiamo insegnato ai nostri, che la terra è nostra madre. Qualunque cosa capita alla terra, capita anche ai figli della terra. Se gli uomini sputano sulla terra, sputano su se stessi.
Questo noi sappiamo: la terra non appartiene all’uomo, è l’uomo che appartiene alla terra. Questo noi sappiamo. Tutte le cose sono collegate, come il sangue che unisce una famiglia. Qualunque cosa capita alla terra, capita anche ai figli della terra. Non è stato l’uomo a tessere la tela della vita, egli ne è soltanto un filo. Qualunque cosa egli faccia alla tela, lo fa a se stesso. Ma noi consideriamo la vostra offerta di andare nella riserva che avete stabilita per il mio popolo. Noi vivremo per conto nostro e in pace. Importa dove spenderemo il resto dei nostri giorni.
I nostri figli hanno visto i loro padri umiliati nella sconfitta. I nostri guerrieri hanno provato la vergogna. E dopo la sconfitta, essi passano i giorni nell’ozio e contaminano i loro corpi con cibi dolci e bevande forti. Poco importa dove noi passeremo il resto dei nostri giorni: essi non saranno molti. Ancora poche ore, ancora pochi inverni, e nessuno dei figli delle grandi tribù, che una volta vivevano sulla terra e che percorrevano in piccole bande i boschi, rimarrà per piangere le tombe di un popolo, una volta potente e pieno di speranze come il vostro. Ma perché dovrei piangere la scomparsa del mio popolo? Le tribù sono fatte di uomini, niente di più. Gli uomini vanno e vengono come le onde del mare. Anche l’uomo bianco, il cui Dio cammina e parla con lui da amico a amico, non può sfuggire al destino comune.
Può darsi che siamo fratelli, dopo tutto. Vedremo.
Noi sappiamo una cosa che l’uomo bianco forse un giorno scoprirà: il nostro Dio è lo stesso Dio. Può darsi che voi ora pensiate di possederlo, come desiderate possedere la nostra terra. Ma voi non potete possederlo. Egli è il Dio dell’uomo e la sua compassione è uguale per l’uomo rosso come per l’uomo bianco. Questa terra è preziosa anche per lui. E far male alla terra è disprezzare il suo creatore. Anche gli uomini bianchi passeranno, forse prima di altre tribù. Continuate a contaminare il vostro letto e una notte soffocherete nei vostri stessi rifiuti.
Ma nel vostro sparire brillerete vividamente, bruciati dalla forza del Dio che vi portò su questa terra e per qualche scopo speciale vi diede il dominio su questa terra dell’uomo rosso. Questo destino è un mistero per noi, poiché non capiamo perché i bisonti saranno massacrati, i cavalli selvatici tutti domati, gli angoli segreti della foresta pieni dell’odore di molti uomini, la vista delle colline rovinate dai fili del telegrafo. Dov’è la boscaglia? Sparita. Dov’è l’aquila? Sparita. E che cos’è dire addio al cavallo e alla caccia? La fine della vita e l’inizio della sopravvivenza.
Noi potremmo capire se conoscessimo che cos’è che l’uomo bianco sogna, quali speranze egli descriva ai suoi figli nelle lunghe notti invernali, quali visioni egli accenda nelle loro menti, affinché essi desiderino il futuro. Ma noi siamo dei selvaggi. I sogni dell’uomo bianco ci sono nascosti. E poiché ci sono nascosti noi seguiremo i nostri pensieri.
Perciò noi considereremo l’offerta di acquistare la nostra terra. Se accetteremo sarà per assicurarci la riserva che avete promesso. Lì forse potremo vivere gli ultimi nostri giorni come desideriamo. Quando l’ultimo uomo rosso sarà scomparso dalla terra ed il suo ricordo sarà l’ombra di una nuvola che si muove sulla prateria, queste spiagge e queste foreste conserveranno ancora gli spiriti del mio popolo.
Poiché essi amano questa terra come il neonato ama il battito del cuore di sua madre. Così, se noi vi vendiamo la nostra terra, amatela come l’abbiamo amata noi. Conservate in voi la memoria della terra com’essa era quando l’avete presa e con tutta la vostra forza, con tutta la vostra capacità e con tutto il vostro cuore conservatela per i vostri figli ed amatela come Dio ci ama tutti.
Noi sappiamo una cosa, che il nostro Dio è lo stesso Dio. Questa terra è preziosa per Lui. Anche l’uomo bianco non fuggirà al destino comune. Può darsi che siamo fratelli, dopo tutto. Vedremo!"
Capriolo Zoppo, 1854
American Indians lived together in tribes in different environments: grassland, mountains, rivers and lakes were often nomadic and dedicated to hunting and fishing. They had the first contacts with Europeans began after the migrations of the British in the American continent. Gradually the number of whites grew increasingly forcing them to retreat into ever-smaller areas, for the massacres that they suffered at the hands of invaders, to be confined to reservations. But this did not prevent the white man to continue to kill them to near extinction. In fact, currently the natives' s America are about 500 000.
This letter was written by the chief Lame Deer Redskins in 1854 to U.S. President Franklin Pirce.The document reproduced here in full is certainly one of the highest expressions of man's harmony with creation, and expresses the universal wealth of "indigenous peoples" real "natives" of every place on earth and is the response that the tribal chief Duwamish sent to the President of the United States asking to buy the land of Native Americans.
"The Big Boss who is in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of you, because we know that he needs our friendship return. But we consider this offer because we know that if they do not sell, the white man may come with guns to take our land. What Chief Seattle says, the Great Chief in Washington can be considered safe, as our brothers White can be considered safe return of the seasons.
My words are like the stars and do not fade away. How can you buy or sell the sky, the color of the earth? This idea is strange to us. We do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?
Every part of this land is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man. The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The deer, the horse and the eagle are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices of the meadows, the body heat of the horse and man, all belong to the same family. So. When that is the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks a lot. He sends word that we will reserve a place where we can live comfortably on our own. He will be our father and we will be his children. Then we will consider your offer to purchase. It will not be easy because this land is sacred to us. The shining water that moves in streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each reflection flickering in the clear water of the lake is about events and memories in the life of my people.
The water's murmur is the voice of the father of my father. The rivers are our brothers and they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you land, you must remember and teach your children that the rivers are our brothers and yours and you should therefore also be used with the rivers the kindness that you use with a brother.
The red man has ever withdrawn from the advancing white man, like the dew on the mountain retreats before the morning sun. But the ashes of our fathers are sacred. Their graves are holy ground, and so these hills and the trees. This portion of land is consecrated for us. We know that the white man does not understand our thoughts. A portion of land is the same for him as another, because he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy and when he has conquered it he moves to leave the graves of his parents behind him and he does not care. The graves of his fathers and the rights of his children are forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth and his brother, the sky, as things that can be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads.
His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert.
I do not know, our thoughts are different from your thoughts. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the rustling of leaves in the spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps I am a savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is that life, if a man can not hear the lonely cry of the nightjar or speeches of the frogs around a pond at night?
But I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of wind blowing on the surface of the lake or smell of the wind itself, cleansed by rain or scented by pine needles.
The air is precious to the red man for all things share in the same breath.
The white man seems not to notice the air they breathe and how many days a man in agony, he is numb to the stench.
But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us and that the air has the same spirit of life it supports. The wind that gave our fathers the first breath also receives their last breath. And the wind must also give your children the spirit of life. And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and as sacred as a place where even the white man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.
Therefore, we consider the offer to buy our land, but if we decide to accept it, I will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of the earth like brothers. I am a savage and do not understand any other thoughts. I've seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who had fired from the passing train. I am a savage and do not understand how an iron horse puffing may be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to survive.
What is man without the beasts? If there were no more Indians die of loneliness. Because whatever happens to the animals soon happen to man. All things are connected.
You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our ancestors. To respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our people. Teach your children what we have taught ours, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.
This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to earth. This we know. All things are connected like the blood which unites one family. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. It was not the man to weave the web of life, he is merely a strand. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. But we will consider your offer to go to the reserve you have set for my people. We will live for ourselves and at peace. Matter where we will spend the rest of our days.
Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame. And after the defeat, they pass the days in idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet foods and strong drink. It matters little where we spend the rest of our days: They will not be many. Just a few hours, a few more winters, and none of the sons of the great tribes that once lived on earth and traveling in small bands in the woods, will remain to mourn the graves of a people, once powerful and hopeful as yours . But why should I mourn the death of my people? Tribes are made of men, nothing more. Men come and go like the waves of the sea. Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to friend, can not escape the common destiny.
We may be brothers after all. We'll see.
One thing we know that the white man may one day discover: our God is the same God may be that you now feel that they have, how you want to own our land. But you can not own it. He is the God of man and his compassion is equal for the red man as the white man. This earth is precious to him. And scorn to harm the earth is its creator. Even the white men will pass, perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed and one night suffocate in your own waste.
But you will shine brightly in your shot, burned by the power of God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over this land of the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, since we do not understand why the buffalo are slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest filled with the smell of many men, ruined by the sight of the hills telegraph wires. Where is the thicket? Removed. Where is the eagle? Removed. And what to say goodbye to the horse and hunting? The end of life and the beginning of survival.
We could understand if we knew what the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children during the long winter nights, what visions he turns on in their minds, that they wish the future. But we are savages. The white man's dreams are hidden. And since there are hidden we will follow our thoughts.
Therefore we will consider the offer to buy our land. If you accept the reservation to make sure that you have promised. There maybe we can live the last days as our desire. When the last red man has disappeared from the earth and his memory will be the shadow of a cloud that moves on the prairie, these shores and these forests still retain the spirit of my people.
Because they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love as we love ourselves. Stored in the memory of you was like being ground when you've taken, and with all your strength and with all your ability and with all your heart and keep it for your children love it as God loves us all.
This letter was written by the chief Lame Deer Redskins in 1854 to U.S. President Franklin Pirce.The document reproduced here in full is certainly one of the highest expressions of man's harmony with creation, and expresses the universal wealth of "indigenous peoples" real "natives" of every place on earth and is the response that the tribal chief Duwamish sent to the President of the United States asking to buy the land of Native Americans.
"The Big Boss who is in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. The Great Chief also sends us words of friendship and goodwill. This is kind of you, because we know that he needs our friendship return. But we consider this offer because we know that if they do not sell, the white man may come with guns to take our land. What Chief Seattle says, the Great Chief in Washington can be considered safe, as our brothers White can be considered safe return of the seasons.
My words are like the stars and do not fade away. How can you buy or sell the sky, the color of the earth? This idea is strange to us. We do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?
Every part of this land is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of the red man. The white man's dead forget the country of their birth when they go to walk among the stars. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The deer, the horse and the eagle are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices of the meadows, the body heat of the horse and man, all belong to the same family. So. When that is the Great Chief in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land, he asks a lot. He sends word that we will reserve a place where we can live comfortably on our own. He will be our father and we will be his children. Then we will consider your offer to purchase. It will not be easy because this land is sacred to us. The shining water that moves in streams and rivers is not just water but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you land, you must remember that it is sacred, and you must teach your children that it is sacred and that each reflection flickering in the clear water of the lake is about events and memories in the life of my people.
The water's murmur is the voice of the father of my father. The rivers are our brothers and they quench our thirst. The rivers carry our canoes and feed our children. If we sell you land, you must remember and teach your children that the rivers are our brothers and yours and you should therefore also be used with the rivers the kindness that you use with a brother.
The red man has ever withdrawn from the advancing white man, like the dew on the mountain retreats before the morning sun. But the ashes of our fathers are sacred. Their graves are holy ground, and so these hills and the trees. This portion of land is consecrated for us. We know that the white man does not understand our thoughts. A portion of land is the same for him as another, because he is a stranger who comes in the night and takes from the land whatever he needs. The earth is not his brother but his enemy and when he has conquered it he moves to leave the graves of his parents behind him and he does not care. The graves of his fathers and the rights of his children are forgotten. He treats his mother, the earth and his brother, the sky, as things that can be bought, plundered, sold like sheep or bright beads.
His appetite will devour the earth and leave behind only a desert.
I do not know, our thoughts are different from your thoughts. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. But perhaps it is because the red man is a savage and does not understand.
There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the rustling of leaves in the spring or the rustle of insect wings. But perhaps I am a savage and do not understand. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is that life, if a man can not hear the lonely cry of the nightjar or speeches of the frogs around a pond at night?
But I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of wind blowing on the surface of the lake or smell of the wind itself, cleansed by rain or scented by pine needles.
The air is precious to the red man for all things share in the same breath.
The white man seems not to notice the air they breathe and how many days a man in agony, he is numb to the stench.
But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us and that the air has the same spirit of life it supports. The wind that gave our fathers the first breath also receives their last breath. And the wind must also give your children the spirit of life. And if we sell you our land, you must keep it apart and as sacred as a place where even the white man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.
Therefore, we consider the offer to buy our land, but if we decide to accept it, I will make one condition. The white man must treat the beasts of the earth like brothers. I am a savage and do not understand any other thoughts. I've seen a thousand rotting buffaloes on the prairie, left by the white man who had fired from the passing train. I am a savage and do not understand how an iron horse puffing may be more important than the buffalo that we kill only to survive.
What is man without the beasts? If there were no more Indians die of loneliness. Because whatever happens to the animals soon happen to man. All things are connected.
You must teach your children that the ground beneath their feet is the ashes of our ancestors. To respect the land, tell your children that the earth is rich with the lives of our people. Teach your children what we have taught ours, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. If men spit upon the ground, they spit upon themselves.
This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to earth. This we know. All things are connected like the blood which unites one family. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. It was not the man to weave the web of life, he is merely a strand. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. But we will consider your offer to go to the reserve you have set for my people. We will live for ourselves and at peace. Matter where we will spend the rest of our days.
Our children have seen their fathers humbled in defeat. Our warriors have felt shame. And after the defeat, they pass the days in idleness and contaminate their bodies with sweet foods and strong drink. It matters little where we spend the rest of our days: They will not be many. Just a few hours, a few more winters, and none of the sons of the great tribes that once lived on earth and traveling in small bands in the woods, will remain to mourn the graves of a people, once powerful and hopeful as yours . But why should I mourn the death of my people? Tribes are made of men, nothing more. Men come and go like the waves of the sea. Even the white man, whose God walks and talks with him as friend to friend, can not escape the common destiny.
We may be brothers after all. We'll see.
One thing we know that the white man may one day discover: our God is the same God may be that you now feel that they have, how you want to own our land. But you can not own it. He is the God of man and his compassion is equal for the red man as the white man. This earth is precious to him. And scorn to harm the earth is its creator. Even the white men will pass, perhaps sooner than other tribes. Continue to contaminate your bed and one night suffocate in your own waste.
But you will shine brightly in your shot, burned by the power of God who brought you to this land and for some special purpose gave you dominion over this land of the red man. That destiny is a mystery to us, since we do not understand why the buffalo are slaughtered, the wild horses all tamed, the secret corners of the forest filled with the smell of many men, ruined by the sight of the hills telegraph wires. Where is the thicket? Removed. Where is the eagle? Removed. And what to say goodbye to the horse and hunting? The end of life and the beginning of survival.
We could understand if we knew what the white man dreams, what hopes he describes to his children during the long winter nights, what visions he turns on in their minds, that they wish the future. But we are savages. The white man's dreams are hidden. And since there are hidden we will follow our thoughts.
Therefore we will consider the offer to buy our land. If you accept the reservation to make sure that you have promised. There maybe we can live the last days as our desire. When the last red man has disappeared from the earth and his memory will be the shadow of a cloud that moves on the prairie, these shores and these forests still retain the spirit of my people.
Because they love this earth as the newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love as we love ourselves. Stored in the memory of you was like being ground when you've taken, and with all your strength and with all your ability and with all your heart and keep it for your children love it as God loves us all.
One thing we know, that our God is the same God This earth is precious to Him, too, the white man does not escape the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We'll see! "
Roe Zoppo, 1854
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