Pale Sun

Fifty miles from Dakota territory
 Cheyenne scalp hangs from his belt
 Found him alone washing in the Bighorn
 a steady aim and he bagged his game
 Pale sun falls without contest
 Here is obedient darkness
 He will not return
 White Cadillac, white man at the wheel,
 white faces on the mountain,
 wounds that will never heal
 Black clouds overhead, old man says
 looks like rain
 Thieves' Road winds to the Black Hills sign
 says South Dakota, U.S.A.
 Grass plains stretch to the horizon,
 not a soul can be found on them
 They will not return
 Old rusted pickup and a mad dog in the yard,
 purple paint peels but fails to reveal
 the bitterness that grows inside
 Cloud of dust in the distance,
 strange knock beneath my hood
 Is it better to have words left unsaid
 than to have words misunderstood?
 Pale sun falls without contest
 Here is obedient darkness
 It will return
 I know it will return
 It will return