I think they said, but I am not certain,
in a less dry season,
this has been the fathering place,
where the man tossed his smile up a mountain to the woman who liked yellow.

They decorated their heads with lime and white rats' tails
and tasted the sweet drink made from corkwood blossoms —
it was done once for all time,
before their Country was annexed
by the spiritually-blind who saw simply a low hill
from another vantage point.

But as I did not inquire, it is not certain
if the eternal part of them
has gone into the ground to avoid further harm from our words.

I was instructed to thrust three plum branches
in the dim semi-twilight
to repeat doings in far past times
and I retained the feeling
though this has long been a place desecrated.

But how to return to the place, I forgot to inquire,
and how two of the four weeks vanished, I omitted to ask,
(that indifference is only the result of civilization)
and now I walk right in the face of the afternoon sun
with its crimson centre turning the spinifex to gold.

I do know this Country here is where I bin jump up:
arar redred, arar redred,
kangaroo blue, kangaroo blue.