Innledning
The vast expanse of sky above us has shed tears of empathy over my people for countless ages. To us, it seems immutable and everlasting, yet it is capable of change. It may be obscured by clouds when tomorrow arrives.
My words, however, are akin to the steadfast stars, unwavering and constant. Whatever Seattle utters, the revered chief at Washington can trust with the same assurance as the return of the sun or the changing seasons. The White Chief conveys that the Big Chief at Washington extends to us warm greetings of amity and kindness.
Utdrag
Once the departed cross the threshold of the tomb and venture beyond the stars, they no longer hold affection for you or their homeland. Their memory is fleeting, and they never come back. However, our deceased hold a deep reverence for the world that granted them existence.
They still cherish the lush valleys, majestic peaks, secluded dales, and lush waterways, and long for the solitary and affectionate hearts of the living. They frequently revisit, lead, console, and solace them from the Happy Hunting Grounds.
It is impossible for day and night to coexist. The Native American has always avoided the arrival of the White Man, similar to how the morning mist retreats from the sun's rays.
Your proposal appears equitable, and I believe my people will acquiesce and relocate to the designated reservation. Afterward, we can coexist in tranquility, for the eloquent utterances of the Great White Chief resemble the voice of nature, guiding my people through obscurity towards clarity.
Where we spend the remaining days of our lives holds little significance. Our time is limited, and the Native American's future appears bleak. There is no glimmer of hope shining in the horizon.
Dismal winds wail in the distance, and a somber destiny seems to relentlessly pursue the Red Man. Wherever he may go, the inescapable presence of his inevitable destroyer looms, and he prepares stoically to confront his fate, much like the wounded doe bracing herself for the hunter's footsteps.
Just a handful of lamentations, just a few more winters, and none of the offspring of the formidable tribes that once traversed this expansive terrain or resided in secure homes, safeguarded by the Great Spirit, will exist to grieve over their forebears' burial sites.
They were once more robust and optimistic than your people. However, why should I lament over my people's premature destiny?
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