At The Campfires Of The Setting Sun
 ~Marge Tindal~  1999

Down through the ages
the stories come.
Told by the campfires
at the setting of the sun.

A people so proud made to leave the land they love.
It was not right......
For all the worth of me I cannot see
whatever was gained by the men with skin so white.

To take my people and herd them
like cattle in the night...
where they fell like wounded warriors
No, it was not right.

Read we now the legend
of their trials upon the trail....
how many never made it
and now wear the death veil.

Buried along the way,
their blood stains the land.
Sent to meet their spirits
driven by the white man's hand.

The Trail Of Tears of the Cherokee
still echos throughout the land...
this is the land we walked
and lay dying in the sand.

If you go down to the river
and see the blood-stained shore;
the waters are also salted
with tears that flow no more.

All the tears of the Cherokee
have flowed into the river of time...
and to the pool of tears...
I have added mine.

People of my people,
know that I remember...
I cannot rest,
I will not rest,
until all know the legend
and how it really was.

I will tell my stories
for all to see...
So the stories will be remembered
of the Great Cherokee.

Come and sit by the campfire
bring your native ones...
we will sing praise to the Cherokee,
the story has just begun.

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