There is a river that flows through the town, And a woods along each side, There many a young man would sit himself down, And kiss the lips of his soon-to-be bride.

And the river flows ...and the grass grows ... and the silent, soft, southern wind blows.

Once there were dwellings on that river bank, In the long ago times far away, Dwellings of bark, saplings and mud, Sometimes you find traces today.

The skins of the people were coppery hue, They danced through the shadows of trees, Their hair was like coal, or shiny black jet, They wore feathers to show they were free.

And the river flows,...and the grass grows... And the silent, soft, southern wind blows

Then came the houses made of logs, And the men whose skins were white, And the babies were born, who needed more land, And the coppery ones vanished from sight.

The whites brought the firesticks that killed the bears, The deer ran farther away, The whites brought firewater to dull your eyes, While you dreamed of the times far away.

And the river flows,...and the grass grows,... And the hot, southern wind blows.

Sometimes a tow-headed, freckle-faced boy, Finds an arrowhead there on that bank, Or a scrap of a pot made centuries ago, Buried in earth soft and dank.

Sometimes an old man comes there to sit, And he thinks of the time he was young, He remembers the stories of plentiful fish, When the white man first had come.

And the river flows,...and the grass grows... And the soft, southern wind blows.

I know the real story of that river bank, And the bones beneath it's sod. Of the coppery ones, and early white ones, Who there on that bank met their God.

I know of the blood they spilled on that ground, I know it was a brilliant red Why didn't it matter that the blood was the same? It gave not a hint of skin's hue?

And the river flows, ... and the grass grows,... And the soft, southern wind blows.

There are bones buried in this ground, Bones from both copperys and whites, And there is the charcoal formed in their fires, As they both tried to brighten their night.

And there are pots buried in this ground, Pots that both of them used, And there is blood spilled on this ground, And it's all of a brilliant red hue.

And the white dies, and the coppery dies, And the soft, southern wind sighs.

arti319 7/10/02