Having renounced the countries of our ancestors,
like motherless children,
we wander aimlessly between your beautiful shores.
The beauty that was never ours to take.
The riches, the bounty, only painful reminders,
the spiritual loneliness of our inner landscape.
Yearning for some other place.
Pretending not to see the black face of this Mother.
How to fill this hole where the soul once was?
Obese and happy-go-lucky larrikins,
how do you find your way across this continent whose ancient walking tracks you never bothered to learn about?
The Songlines was never your lullaby song.
The black crow cries as we tramp on this sacred ground,
not knowing that this is not a country,
but the Soul-Home-Spirit-Land.
The oneness of Tjukurpa forever lost on us.
It is too big to be spanned by endless suburbs, takeaways, and car tire shops.
Still, we press on.
Waltzing all the true blue way: “I still call Australia home”.
Big bananas, cows, pineapples and prawns.
Please, please stay behind me as I hit the open road.
Into the desert, maybe I find my salvation there.
Unconsciously yearning for what the blackfulla has.
How do I find in myself what I killed in him?
Where do I look? Where do I find my lost soul?
Cry, you crow, cry …. as I fall from Wholeness
into this lazy affluent “Australian way of life”,
into comfortable, sugar coated Nothingness.
Where is this road I built taking me?
So, I take my leave from you,
I depart from your flashy built up shores.
With some relief,
realizing and admitting: it is elsewhere I belong.
But I don’t leave you, the ancient land, you powerful teacher.
The spirit-full landscape etched lovingly into my heart forever,
Grateful for the learning.
A gentle reminder oozing from your beauty
and a thunder from your awesome skies,
teaching me the true meaning of Home.
photos by Alemka