O! why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race? When I look, each one starts; when I speak, I offend; Then I'm silent and passive, and lose every friend.
Nobody, shouldn`t you be with your own tribe or something?
My blood is mixed My mother was ungumpai picani, my father is habsoluca This mixture was not respected; as a small boy I was often left to myself So I spent many months stalking the Elk people, to prove I would soon become a good hunter One day finally, my Elk relatives took pity on me, and a young elk gave his life to me With only my knife, I took his life As I was preparing to cut the meat white men came upon me, they were English soldiers I cut one with my knife but they hit me on the head, with a rifle All went black; my spirit seemed to leave me I was then taken east, in a cage I was taken to Toronto, then Philadelphia, and then to New York; and each time I arrived in another city, somehow the white man had moved all thier people there ahead of me Each new city contained the same white people as the last, and I could not understand how a whole city of people could be moved so quickly Eventually, I was taken on a ship across the great sea, over to England, and I was paraded before them like a captured animal, an exhibit So I mimicked them, imitating their ways, hoping they might lose interest in this young savage, but their interest only grew I was copying them so they placed me into the white men's schools It was there that I discovered, in a book, the words that you, William Blake, had written They were powerful words and they spoke to me So I made careful plans and I eventually escaped Once again I crossed the great ocean I saw many sad things as I made my way back to the lands of my people Once they realized who I was, the stories of my adventures angered them They called me a liar Exaybachay - He Who Talks Loud, Saying Nothing They ridiculed me, my own people, and I was left to wander the earth alone I am Nobody.
Improvement makes straight roads; the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius.
I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore;
And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.