The wind here knows the sound of my name, A song of the valley, an ancient refrain. Where the river winds through the basalt and gold, I walk on the stories that never grow old. A Cherokee spirit in high desert air, The strength of the Seven is woven in there. From the Blue Ridge peaks to the sagebrush sea, The heartbeat of nations is pulsing in me. Not a guest or a traveler passing through, But a part of the dirt and the morning dew. Fixed like the mountains against the wide sky, The soul of this land is the light in my eye.