Pocahontas

I recall the story of Pocahontas, from when I was a child, how she saved the englishman, Captain John Smith from having his brains bashed out with a big rock, by putting her head over his, and defying her father, her chief, her people, to save him.
This story, of course, like so many I read then, was almost totally mythical.
If you really want to know more, I can tell you she died of smallpox, at Gravesend, in Kent, on the south coast of England.
Or you can read what Powhatan Museum has to say about her.
Here, however, we're just listening to music, Neil Young.
I like content in songs, I like there to be a story in the lyrics, or beautiful images. This song, (like so many of Neil Young's), has both.

Aurora borealis
The icy sky at night
Paddles cut the water
In a long and hurried flight
From the white man
To the fields of green
And the homeland
We've never seen.

They killed us in our tepee
And they cut our women down
They might have left some babies
Cryin' on the ground
But the firesticks
And the wagons come
And the night falls
On the setting sun.

They massacred the buffalo
Kitty corner from the bank
The taxis run across my feet
And my eyes have turned to blanks
In my little box
At the top of the stairs
With my Indian rug
And a pipe to share.

I wish a was a trapper
I would give thousand pelts
To sleep with Pocahontas
And find out how she felt
In the mornin'
On the fields of green
In the homeland
We've never seen.

And maybe Marlon Brando
Will be there by the fire
We'll sit and talk of Hollywood
And the good things there for hire
And the Astrodome
And the first tepee
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Marlon Brando, Pocahontas and me
Pocahontas.