Ai, ai, my small red man,
Why do you weep on my bosom,
Here in the Hut of the Newborn,
Fresh from the beak of the Raven,
He who made earth from the rain clouds,
He who made Queen Charlotte Islands,
He who made men from the clam mounds?

Long did you lie in a hammock
Swung near the Hanging Horizons,
Trailing your feathers of swansdown
Blown through the masks of Divine Ones,
Hearing the Whistlers, the spirits,
Pierce the dense blueness of Starland;

Lost, until my heart called to you,
Lost until my body bore you.
Wah, ah wah, my small red man,
Welcome, the journey is ended!