Hastin Dot Klish, just Navajo,
Of lonesome place, Chilchinbito—

'Tis you in truth that I would be;
Good-bye to towns, their jest with me.

A horse, a blanket, a smoke or two;
Foot into stirrup and off with you. . . .

Chuska hills, and the Chinle trails;
Shiprock, waiting to spread its sails;
That lonely place, Chilchinbito—
With shooting stars, slip loose, let go!