The dead child,man,elder...

Their rifles were shooting,again and again,
Women were screaming loud...
In the indian village there was no man
And the little indian boy was running as fast as a cloud.

The natives were fighting,screaming fearless
Tomahawks were cutting the air
But the yankees were having their guns,leaving behind a great mess.
The young indian was running away,not beeing able to bare...

THE PAIN!!!!!

They want him dead.
The bastards want him dead,
They hunt him cause he's red,
They shoot a bullet in his head...
Damn yeah!

What he said,what he knew
No one cared,excepting you.
The indian...he was dead...
Since he was a child...
And that's so wild!
The old indian,
He could not run anymore...
He was dead...