To Race Again In The Wind

It is attributed to Shaw,
that youth was wasted on the young,
to which, I have often replied,
that beauty was wasted upon women,
and can life ever give comfort,
before that final pause.

As we have seem to be idle,
youth has sped past us,
ever so swiftly,
racing like wild horses,
there in the desert wsnd,
leaving us stranded,
in a blowing sand storm,
blinded and wandering aimlessly,
as they raced, so far ahead,
clear out of our sight.

To grieve that those years,
which have long ceased to be,
departed, and we wish now,
that they could be enjoyed,
we can reflect on those good moments,
that has to be the cause,
the purpose of our wandering,
in this endless desert of life.

Alas, another flashed has gone by,
as a lighting bolt scatters,
the darkness that enveloped the night,
so quick, and with no remorse,
to see the young colts,
there racing in the Summers storm,
with trails of dust,
laughing and singing up a storm,
this, is the purpose,
of this aimless wandering,
that we have endured in our life,
race youth, race into the far distance,
our joy, is but to see the storm,
of dust that develops in your trail.

The Chant of O'Homa

How long must we walk,
this path to the sea,
tears have been
shed about our tired feet,
as promisses given,
that our journey will deliver,
us to a land of fertile valleys,
and rivers of many waters,
flowing to the sea.

O'Homa, O'Homa, we were told,
that seeds of abudance
to which we will sow,
and harvest maise and roses,
gold and red, colors do flow,
our tribal banner flies,
a reminder of those lives expired,
on this journey,and souls delivered,
promisses taken, not given,
upon barren land we are delivered,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
this is the land is our chant.