Brother, I hear the death rattle sounding for their last,
Your small group had dwindled and now they've all passed,
Great Sprit cries with you as it falls on the Californian crop,
You're the sole survivor and when you go the Yahi will stop.
They drove your people to extinction in cleansing of the State,
Thousands died to make way for the colonists and your fate
Was to escape into the wilderness with your own small band,
Following your own ways and customs surviving off the land.
In 1908 after decades undetected surveyors found you,
And you all scattered but your elderly mother couldn't do,
So she hid there in fear and died soon after you returned,
Your uncle and sister never came back and sadness burned.
Brother, I hear the drum beat for the misery in your heart,
The three years alone in the wilderness tearing your soul apart,
Yanan names are given if other tribal members introduce you,
But Yahi and Yana people are gone so now what will you do?
Forest fires burn and wandering further than ever before,
Emaciated and lonely you're driven to Lassen Peak's foothills sore
And starving at fifty years old in 1911 just driven out or else die,
The "last wild indian" who has no name, Brother I could cry.
Hear the distant voices of your brethren as they rejoice,
Thankful that their ways and traditions you can still give voice,
Great Spirit welcomes you warmly a mere five years later on,
To join the resting place of a culture wiped out forever gone.
Brother, I don't forget and I send my prayer up for you,
And others like you forgotten but who I feel I almost knew,
Hear my words as I honour your tribe and a name unheard,
How sad to me that name is lost, no-one alive to speak the word.