The winds came from the far lands, Whispers of change carried on their backs, But the ground is dry, The trees bend, but they do not break. The warriors of old stand tall, They hear the winds, but their hearts are stone. The rain will not come, they say, Not while we still hold the staff of power. Barefoot, they stand on the earth, The soil knows their names, their pain. They sing not of wealth, But of a day when the land will be theirs. Their eyes see beyond the hills, Where the chiefs sit in their houses of stone, But stones do not last, The earth remembers the feet that tread lightly.
