We learn, yet forget, in the cataclysm of our birth
the owl songs of Muk Muk;
the death feather, reacquainted we will be again
in the sunset of our mortality.
                (The call of the strange bird is heard . . .)

The dijeridoo sits in the corner of my room
near the window, ghosts breathe
my frailty of spirit
resonates in the acoustics of this gouged plain.
                (. . . on the pipe of the breathing floor . . .)

The dark skin ripped apart
perished seeds of the Dreamtime
to the new crops of the Invader;
blood furrows this occupied soil of neo-pestilence.
                (. . . so high will become the bushels of wheat . . .)

Harvested by the demon-seed of the Invader,
and grain-fed the insatiable hunger of the Dictator
they danced, until caught red-handed
the hands bite the hands that have fed them.
                (. . . that man will cannibalise his fellow man . . .)