EÕen as Mi-nam-bo-zho brought
The Good Medicine, so hath she
wrought
From out the mortars of the
sky
ArtÕs precious meal of
ministry,
For in her ÒCloudÓ we hear
again
The storm gods pestling the
rain
Round upon round, with
tumbling din
Grinding the Good
Medicine
That even the art-starved
souls of men
May live again.