In the whisper of red earth, where Dreamtime rivers carve eternal paths,
We stand, roots deep in sixty thousand suns,
Custodians of Country, kin to eagle, kangaroo, and ancient stone.
Our tongues weave stories with the wind,
Songs that birth the stars, heal the wounded soil,
Languages alive as the heartbeat of the land.
Then came the sails, pale ghosts from distant seas,
Their words like fences, sharp and unyielding,
Silencing our lore, veiling our wisdom in shadows.
We became echoes, spoken over, not with—
Our ceremonies stolen, our voices chained in foreign scripts,
Country’s cries muffled under boots that claimed what was never theirs.
Yet the brolga dances, her steps a map of memory,
Each footprint a story, unbroken by time’s theft.
Our children sing the old songs, new voices rising,
Their laughter a fire that lights the ancient ways.
We carry the law of the land in our breath,
Speaking truths that no silence can erase.
Through eucalyptus haze, we call to the future,
Our knowledge a river, flowing to meet the sea.
We invite you to listen, to walk with us on Country,
To learn from the stars, the rocks, the whispering trees.
Our languages are bridges, not relics of the past,
Living words that bind us to earth’s eternal pulse.
It is time: acknowledge the depth, the silenced depths,
Live responsibly with this sacred ground, not upon it.
Let the old language yield to the chorus of all—
First Nations’ wisdom, woven with newcomers’ humility.
Only then will Australia’s true voice emerge,
A harmony of earth, sky, and every living soul.
