Pluma de Aguila

My wound is a gold that, in the hunter's eye,
It oozes the purest doubt in it.
Doubt in it...

Swearing that he hit me, blessed be he,
Ardent kisses the desert gives at my feet.
At my feet...

I will always be me, Eagle Feather,
Feline slow step, god-buffalo, Shaman...

I will return, with the wind my ashes,
Visionary warrior of the old connection.

I will gallop in your dreams and in your cold heart,
Fertilized with the blood of fervor.
Of fervor...