A LETTER OF SEATTLE
"The big boss from Washington saying
that he wants
to buy
our land. Therefore we know that it does not need of our friendship. We will think about their offer,. The large head of Washington can believe in what the boss says Seattle with the same sure that our white brothers can rely on the change of estaões of the year.
As you can buy or sell the sky, the warmth of the land? This idea is strange. We are not owners of clean air or the brightness of the water. How can then buy them from us? This whole earth is sacred to my people. Each sheet clamp, all beaches of sand, each veil of fog in the dark forests, each clearing and all the insects are sacred zumbir in tradiões and belief of my people.
We know that the white
man does not understand our way of life. For him a torrão of land is equal to the other. The land is not your sister or your friend, and after it exaurí he leaves. Rouba the land of their children, no respect. His greed impoverishes the land and leaves behind it the deserts. You can not find peace in the cities of the white man. Neither place where you can hear the desabrochar of foliage in the spring or the zunir the wings of insects. Perhaps as a wild believes that nothing, the roar of cities is terrible for my ears. An Indian prefers the gentle wind sussurro mirror on the water and smell of the wind itself, purified by rain around noon and scent of pine. The air is precious to the red man, for all living beings breathe the same air,
animals, trees, men. It seems that the white man is import to the air we breathe. As a dying man, he is insensitive to the bad smell.
If I decide to accept, imporei a condião: the white man should treat animals as if they were their brothers. I saw thousands of bisões rotting in the prairies abandoned by the white man that abatia the shots triggered the train. I am a savage and do not understand as a fumegante iron horse can be more valuable than a bisão, that we kill red skins only to sustain our own lives. What is man without the animals? If all animals acabassem men morreriam of
spiritual solitude, because all that happens to animals can also affect men. All that hurts the earth, also hurts the children of the earth.
Our children saw their parents humiliated in defeat. Our warriors succumb under the weight of shame. And after defeat spend their time at leisure and envenenam his body with food and drink adocicados Burning. It has great importance where we our last days. They are not many. More few hours or even a few winters and none of the major tribes of the children who lived in these lands or who have small flocks vagueado in the woods, sobrará to cry, De something we know that the white man might come to one day discover: the our God is the same God. It, perhaps, that can be owner Dele in the same way as our wish to have the land. But you can not. He is a God of all. And whether in the same way the red and the white man. The land is loved by Him: Cause damage to the land is to show contempt for the Creator. The white man will also disappear, perhaps sooner than the other races. Continued sujando your own bed and there is a death, an evening, feel strangled in their own waste. After the last shot bisão and domados all wild horses, when the mysterious jungles federem the people, when the hills escarpments fill yarn is speaking, then where will the sertões? They will have finished. And the eagles? They will have gone away. To remain goodbye to swallow the tower and the game; the end of life and beginning the struggle for survival.
Perhaps compreendêssemos with dreams that the white man if we knew what the hopes transmit to their children in the long nights of winter, which offer visions of the future that can be trained to the wishes of the day tomorrow. But we are wild. The dreams of the white man are hidden to us. And because they arehidden that we choose our own path. If consentirmos in the sale is to secure the reserves that we promised. There may be able to live our last days as desire. After the last red man and his party has no memory of the shadow of a passing cloud hovering over the prairies, the soul of my people continue to live in these forests and beaches, because the love we as a newborn loves the beat of coraão''s mother. If you sell our land, loves it as we amávamos. Protect it as we protegíamos. Never forget as it was the land when it took office. And with all his strength, his
power, and all its coraão, saves it to their children, and loves it as a God loves us all. One thing we know: our God is the same God. This land is loved by Him: Even the white man can avoid our common destiny.
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