The Majesty of the Mapmaker They came to cross this river in their hands an alien pride: as they drove their horses westward they held their heads up high. The broken ruts on the prairie, the wheel tracks in the sand: to see their dream, you draw a line as far as you can. Now their foreign voices have long since died away; the foundations built with their blood lie crumbled in decay. Still I hear their voices in the wind rustling low, and feel their footsteps guiding me down this lonesome prairie road. They came from every village they carved out from the land: with open eyes, unspoilt dreams, a heart’s enduring plan. They sat down at a table where speech rang out like song and turned their dreams into a country proud, free and strong. Though their honest pledges have since been turned to lies, their dominion made a prison by men with deceitful eyes, still I feel their passion as I cross this nation wide: the majesty of the mapmaker still haunts me deep inside.