I hear the voices rising, strong and full of spirit,
A people who claim their truth in the language of the earth,
Where names are not forced from foreign tongues,
But rise from the soil, the rivers, the ancient mountains,
Given by the breath of ancestors, whispering in the wind,
Each syllable born from the heart, from the drum,
Sounding the pulse of time, the rhythm of being,
Their names are the leaves on trees, the stars in the sky,
The flame that burns in the center of the sacred fire,
They reject the exonyms that tried to cover their truth.
The colonizers came with maps and pens, with words unknown,
They spoke as if they could rename the mountains and waters,
As if a name from their mouths could replace the sacred song,
But the people stood tall, their feet rooted deep in the land,
And they said no—this is not who we are, nor will be,
We are the echo of the hills, the laughter of the rivers,
Our names are etched in the veins of the earth,
We rise with the dawn and set with the stars,
In our language, we are whole, we are many, we are one,
And our names, our true names, shall never be lost.