Cynthia Ann

CYNTHIA ANN

No future in Illinois
Silas told the big Parker clan
They pointed wagons for Texas
With a baby to Indian land
Cynthia Ann

Nocona told the Comanches
No future for us with white man
Settlers lay dying or bloodied
The chief’s prize in Indian hands
Cynthia Ann

Spirits cry over the river
Tears raining into the sand
The Red, she runs ever redder
Red as the blood on our hands
Cynthia Ann

Grieving girl grown to a woman
Son Quanah, chief Comanche man
Her life lived, loved as Indian …
Taken by a raiding white band
Cynthia Ann

A mother longs for her children
Her old ways, her Indian clan
No escape, no love for living
Broken heart soon covered with sand
Cynthia Ann

Spirits cry over the river
Tears raining into the sand
The Red, she runs ever redder
Red as the blood on our hands
Cynthia Ann

Sometimes I go to the river
I hear wind songs of the red man
I cry for my own lost mother
And I write with a trembling hand
Cynthia Ann