Oh hear the lonesome pine creak and hear the rivers wail. See the sky shed its tears for the people that did not have to die. Look into the mountains of Georgia and the Carolina, see the empty homes and the forgotten land. Look to a somber people that shed tears as they walk away. By the white mans gun and the pony solider, they are taken from their native home. Sent to a place they do not know, sent under the burning sun. In a empty place with no tall pines or cool rivers. Where the Otter does not play nor does the Owl keep watch at night. Alone along a lonely trail they walk, broken and defeated. Having trusted in lies of the fork tongue, they wail as the earth mourns for them. The children of the Cherokee laid low as they weep on their walk down a trail of tears.