This is about the Cherokee Tribes native to America.
We do not inherit the land from our parents
We borrow it from a daughter or son
Thats why we must take care of it
So we may return it when were done
But they came in hoardes and raped our land
Beware the wraith of the white mans hand
They slayed them braves that stood so strong
And now we remember them in our glory song
They killed my brother my sister my child
And still they insist that it is I who is wild
They say that I am savage , no more then a beast
Yet they slaughter the great buffalo not even to feast
They made us march on the trail of tears
They made us march for what seemed for years
They made us march on the trail where we cried
They made us march and four thousand died
Now along that trail blooms the cherokee rose
White for every tear a mother did compose
With a gold centre for the gold that was stole from our land
And seven white leaves, for seven cherokee clans
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