My heart can hear the cries, my spirit can feel the pain,
my feet tiring from walking upon the earth. Now my legs
bleed from the thorns. I can feel the pain and suffering
of my people. This rose, the white rose, carries the tears,
and hurts spirits of my people. People who had nothing
but yet had everything. Standing here I can try to picture
the life of the Cherokee. The life of my people. How
everything was in peace and hard work. The birth of a child.
The death of an old one. The wed of the loved ones. How
could the white man be so misunderstanding, and hearts
filled with greed? White men killed our buffalo as well as
my people. Now the peace, hard work, and love between the
Cherokee and all Indian tribes, could they have still been
standing tall if there were more, and few of the white
man. Would their lives be so interesting if we were still
in great numbers? Maybe, or maybe not. As I stand in the
white roses, and the thorns. All I can do is cry. Not of
the pain from the thorns, but the pain, and suffering of
my people, the Cherokee.