In the sacred heart where echoes dwell,
Where time unfurls its ancient spell,
Gathered souls in a sacred space,
In the cradle of culture, a timeless embrace.
Hear the chant of the songman rise,
A voice that bridges earth and skies,
With sticks that tap like a heartbeat’s call,
Setting the tempo, the rhythm of all.
The didjeridoo’s deep, resonant drone,
A voice of the land, a spirit’s tone,
Winding through the air, a mystical thread,
Binding the living with those who have fled.
Here, the dancers, in painted guise,
Stamp their stories, their truths, their ties,
Arms like branches, bodies that sway,
In perfect rhythm, they dance and play.
With every shout, a history unfolds,
In exclamations, the ancients are told,
The breath of the land in hisses and sighs,
In the sacred circle, where the spirit flies.
Bystanders, too, in the vibrant throng,
Clap their hands, join the song,
Cupping their thighs, they add to the beat,
In unity’s dance, their hearts skip, repeat.
On the edges, the women weave,
With hands that sway, in patterns they cleave,
A string game played with invisible thread,
In the dance of the past, where spirits are fed.
Each body adorned, a canvas of lore,
Patterns of totems, rich stories in store,
Painted with care, each mark a decree,
Of kinship and spirit, of land and of sea.
The boomerangs, too, in colors so bright,
Telling of journeys, of day and of night,
With every tap, a memory ignites,
In the pulse of the dance, in the sacred rites.
And there, the objects, engraved with intent,
Wood, stone, composite—each symbol a scent,
Directing thoughts to the Dreamings so vast,
In the fabric of time, where futures are cast.
For in this moment, the past intertwines,
With the whispers of ancestors, the rhythm defines,
A culture alive, in song and in dance,
In the heart of the ceremony, we find our chance.
To fully appreciate, to truly behold,
The breadth of a culture, in stories retold,
Step into the circle, let the spirit embrace,
In the heart of the ceremony, find your place.
by Bakchos
