Beneath these bone-dry gums, roots twist
through red earth and time, and the ancient songs
move – lonely, endless, never lost –
over sand, over city stone, under the hum
of trains and tangled skylines.
Here, in the hush before rain,
stories are stitched into the breath of wind:
grandmother-wisdom, the first painting
daubed on bark or water’s skin,
keeping the land’s memory safe
when feet were the only maps.
Now, other voices come, bright and many,
weaving melodies from distant hills –
Greek olive groves, Vietnamese paddies,
the minarets and the cathedrals echo,
all trailing languages, recipes, small gods
pressed in family photos and old hands.
On this ground, where creation stories
thread through coral reefs and red stone,
the gathering begins:
an open circle on dust and lawn alike,
all dancing in borrowed rhythms,
all laughter – white flour, bush berries,
spiced lamb, damper, rice – passing from hand to hand.
Yet under every step, every new beginning,
the ancestors’ songlines sing:
the earth remembers first footsteps,
our duty to look after place and each other,
Walking together, not over – but with –
gentle feet on Mother Earth.
This dance is not a melting,
but a joining:
not lines lost,
but a widening river, giving room
for every tributary,
letting light sift through to the oldest bedrock,
where the heart of Country beats for all.
The best of each, offered –
root and leaf, word and welcome,
new truths in shared shade.
Multicolour hands join,
and together, in this wide, patient land,
we become
a song layered with many voices,
but always,
always,
in harmony with the Dreaming.
