In these lands, at once familiar and deadly,
natives now for the first time explore peace
having long sought to channel the storms.
These lands, deep and inspiring, 
have been shaped, are still,
by the prevailing wind. 
Having gained at last this small understanding,
natives may choose to benefit where once all was warfare. 
They may view the bones, broken and petrified; 
generations who strove to impose their own will.
They may trace the paths to blasted battlegrounds,
lower their eyes at sites of horror.
These lands, scarred yet beautiful,
can only remain rough, and remain holy.
Natives may plunge their fears into pools of music,
outrun their sorrows with busy, dancing feet.
Chancing upon grains of gold, they may plant and reap:
the harvest will be for their children.
In these lands, stubborn above almighty sea,
natives grow daily more confident, though
they be torn and cut at every stumble,
agog losing sight of each other.
These lands, inward and in common, 
have been shaped, are still,
by the prevailing wind. 
Long live the good sails
on grinding mills, humble boats.