i watch
nimaamaa, mother.
Dancing and swaying,
in her long, long dress.
At the trims of her dress
are silver, jingly tin cones.
The cones sing in the wind
and they are
as silver as the moon at night.
They are the harmless silver needles
that hold the thick horse hair
used on the women's
shoulder mashkimod,
bag.
Jingle, nimaamaa!
Jingle!
The cones make nimaamaa
look graceful,
gracefully dancing in the moonlight.
Gracefully,
graceful.
Gracefully,
graceful.
Graceful silver dancing.
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