Yonder sky that has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold, and which to us appears changeless and eternal, may change. Today is fair. Tomorrow it may be overcast with clouds. My words are like the stars that never change. Whatever Seattle says, the great chief at Washington can rely upon with as much certainty as he can upon the return of the sun or the seasons.

To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. You wander far from the graves of your ancestors and seemingly without regret. Your religion was written upon tablets of stone by the iron finger of your God so that you could not forget. The Red Man could never comprehend or remember it. Our religion is the traditions of our ancestors—the dreams of our old men, given them in solemn hours of the night by the Great Spirit; and the visions of our sachems, and is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead cease to love you and the land of their nativity as soon as they pass the portals of the tomb and wander away beyond the stars. They are soon forgotten and never return. Our dead never forget this beautiful world that gave them being. They still love its verdant valleys, its murmuring rivers, its magnificent mountains, sequestered vales and verdant lined lakes and bays, and ever yearn in tender fond affection over the lonely hearted living, and often return from the happy hunting ground to visit, guide, console, and comfort them.

Day and night cannot dwell together. The Red Man has ever fled the approach of the White Man, as the morning mist flees before the morning sun. However, your proposition seems fair and I think that my people will accept it and will retire to the reservation you offer them. Then we will dwell apart in peace, for the words of the Great White Chief seem to be the words of nature speaking to my people out of dense darkness.

It matters little where we pass the remnant of our days. They will not be many. The Indian's night promises to be dark. Not a single star of hope hovers above his horizon. Sad-voiced winds moan in the distance. Grim fate seems to be on the Red Man's trail, and wherever he will hear the approaching footsteps of his fell destroyer and prepare stolidly to meet his doom, as does the wounded doe that hears the approaching footsteps of the hunter.

We will ponder your proposition and when we decide we will let you know. But should we accept it, I here and now make this condition that we will not be denied the privilege without molestation of visiting at any time the tombs of our ancestors, friends, and children. Every part of this soil is sacred in the estimation of my people. Every hillside, every valley, every plain and grove, has been hallowed by some sad or happy event in days long vanished.

Even the rocks, which seem to be dumb and dead as the swelter in the sun along the silent shore, thrill with memories of stirring events connected with the lives of my people, and the very dust upon which you now stand responds more lovingly to their footsteps than yours, because it is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and our bare feet are conscious of the sympathetic touch.

Our departed braves, fond mothers, glad, happy hearted maidens, and even the little children who lived here and rejoiced here for a brief season, will love these somber solitudes and at eventide they greet shadowy returning spirits.

And when the last Red Man shall have perished, and the memory of my tribe shall have become a myth among the White Men, these shores will swarm with the invisible dead of my tribe, and when your children's children think themselves alone in the field, the store, the shop, upon the highway, or in the silence of the pathless woods, they will not be alone.

In all the earth there is no place dedicated to solitude. At night when the streets of your cities and villages are silent and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled them and still love this beautiful land. The White Man will never be alone.

Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, did I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds.

不知多少世紀以來，蒼天為我的族人流下了多少憐憫之淚，看似亙久不變的穹蒼，實則變化不定。今天晴空萬里，明日卻可能烏雲密佈，然而，我的這番話，將如星辰，永不墜落。就像日出日落、春去冬來那般地不容置疑，對於這位西雅圖酋長所說的一切，華盛頓的大長官同樣毋須置疑。

對我們而言，我們祖先的骨灰是不可侵犯的，而他們長眠的大地也是很神聖的。你們遠遠地避開你們祖先的墳墓，而且不會感到遺憾。你們的上帝，用祂堅硬的手指，把你們的信仰寫在石板上，以免你們遺忘。這一點是我們紅人所無法理解的，而且這種方式我們也銘記不了。我們的信仰就是祖靈的傳統—那是偉大神靈在夜晚肅穆時刻傳達給長者的夢，那是酋長的靈視。這些，都寫在我們族人的心中。

你們的死者，在進入墳墓之後就會立刻離開，到星辰之外的地方去。他們將不再愛護你們，不再愛護這一塊他們曾經誕生的土地。他們很快就會被遺忘，不再回來。而我們的死者，他們從不會忘記這個曾經孕育他們生命的美麗世界。他們仍深愛著翠綠的山谷、潺潺的流水、巍峨的山嶽、幽靜的溪谷、被綠野所環抱的湖泊海灣。甚者，對於生者孤獨的心靈，他們仍渴望能給予溫暖的呵護。他們常常會從彼岸極樂的狩獵天堂回來探視生者，給予指導、慰問和撫慰。

白天與黑夜，如同參與商。紅人在白人來到之前逃逸而去，猶如晨霧在日出之前消退一樣。不過，你們的提議看起來還算公平，我們的族人或許可以接受，並且遷入你們所規畫的保留區。如此，我們就可以各居一方，相安無事。那位白人大首領的話，無異於大自然在漆黑夜裡對我們族人所說的話。

我們要在哪裡度過我們的餘生，並不是很重要，我們所剩的時日不多了。印地安人的夜晚一片漆黑，天際上看不到一絲絲希望之星的光芒，遠處呼嘯著悲切嗚咽的風聲。悲慘的命運緊跟著紅人的腳步，他們無時無地都能聽到毀滅者逼近的腳步聲。他們已經準備好迎接命運，他們的心已經麻痺，猶如一頭受傷的母鹿，聽著獵人步步逼近的腳步聲。

我們會考慮你們的提議，等我們做好決定，就會通知你們。但對於我們是否應該接受提議，我現在在這裡開出條件：我們有權在任何時刻回去探望我們的祖先、友人或孩子的墳墓，而不會受到任何的阻撓。在我們族人的心裡，這塊土地的每一分、每一寸都是神聖的。每一塊山坡地，每一座山谷，每一片平原，每一座樹林，都因為久遠以來各種或喜或悲的事跡而顯得神聖。

即使是那些躺在靜謐岸邊、遭受烈日曝曬的生硬頑石，也都因為見證過族人那些激動人心的往事，而顯得令人肅然起敬。甚至是你們腳底下的塵土，對我們來說也是富含著感情，因為那裡曾經留著我們祖先的鮮血，我們赤裸的雙足可以感受到祖先對我們充滿憐惜的輕撫。

我們去世的勇士、溫柔的母親、輕盈快樂的少女，甚至是曾在這裡短暫生活與嬉笑的孩子們，都熱愛著這一片荒涼的孤寂之地，並且在日暮時分，迎接著歸來的幽幽祖靈。

有朝一日，當最後一位紅人撒手人寰之後，與我們族人有關的回憶，就會變成神話，然後在白人之間流傳。這些河岸會充滿我們族人無形的靈魂，當你們的後代子孫隻身站在田野、倉庫、商店、公路上，或是走進人跡罕至的森林裡時，他們其實不是孤獨一個人的。

在這個世界上，沒有任何地方是真正孤寂的。夜裡，當你們城鎮上的街道闃寂無聲時，你們以為路上一個人都沒有，但其實，街道上擠滿了昔日的故人，他們的靈魂歸來，仍舊深愛著這片美麗的土地。白人們將永遠不會是孤獨的。

但願白人能公正地善待我們的族人，死者並非是無能為力的。死者，我是這麼說的嗎？世上是沒有死亡的，只是換了一個世界。