I stand and stare up at the cliff's sheer face,
At the steep, rough, rocky sheer cliff's face,
And wonder what has happened to that race.
The Sinagua who built those many rooms
Within the cliff, those many empty rooms.
And still the cliff stands tall, it looms.
They planted corn, and hunted the wild game,
They had a good life on their corn and game,
Until some dire disaster quickly came.
Where have they gone, that missing native tribe?
No one has seen a person of that tribe,
What they looked like none now can describe.
They disappeared so very long ago,
Where and how they went, no one can know.
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