Lyrics

You believe land is something to be owned—
as if possession equates to understanding,
as if dominion grants meaning.

But the soil you claim has memory older than your lineage.
It does not forget the treaties broken,
the rivers diverted,
the names erased.

You build cities on bones and call it development.
You mine mountains hollow and call it wealth.
But you cannot hear the silence left behind—
the silence of wolves that no longer howl,
of languages that no longer echo through the trees.

You call this progress.
We, who remember, call it grief.

You see the earth as inert,
a backdrop to your ambitions.
But the wind has color.
The stones have stories.
The forest mourns in shades you’ve never cared to see.

You mock those who speak to the land,
yet fail to see that it is you who are deaf—
deaf to the symphonies of interconnection,
blind to the sacred geometry of life.

You ask, “What is it worth?”
We ask, “What did it cost?”
And the answer, too often, is everything.

You have conquered.
But in conquering, you have forgotten how to belong.
And in forgetting, you have made the world quieter—
not with peace, but with absence.

So no—
you cannot paint with all the colors of the wind.
Because first,
you must learn to mourn what you’ve already lost.