Flute Song (Hopi)
I
Hail, fathers, hail!
Chieftain of the Gray Flute, hail!
At the four world-points
Ye call, ye summon clouds.
From the four world-points upstarting,
Shall the rain hither come.
II
Hither thunder, rain-thunder here,
Hither the rain-thunder will come;
Hither rain, moving-rain—
Onward now, over all the fields,
Moving-rain.
And the wet earth, amid the corn,
Everywhere, far and near,
It will shine—water-shine.