Índia Cruda

I was born in a hose
From stick to picket fenced
On a cool early morning
When spring arrived
My mother was a raw Indian
Who wore a headband on her braids
The toughest of the women
Bitter like rue

My cradle was a saddlebag
Hanging from a saddle
And I had no other toy
Than some weeping spurs
I didn't know ski lift
My playground was an open field
And I received more beatings
Than a wild horse from the marsh

While I learned to tame
And rode with a herd
The mare was dappled
I could never rein her in
Many years have passed
Singing by the campfires
Saddling untamed horses
Riding the reserved ones

I heard my bitter sorrow
Because I didn't learn to cry
The Indian came to leave me
Like a hangover in the sand
My mother was a raw Indian
Who wore a headband on her braids
The toughest of the women
Bitter like rue