That cold morning in May



Slowly I walk
Between the dunes
That protected this
Tribe from the
Cold winds of
Forever an Dreaming
It held them tight
Their smiles once
Beaming on its sight
These dunes were
And safe
A place
On their ancestral
Journey along
The dry and dusty
Then along came the
Ghost men
And there foreign ways
Happened upon them
On this cold morning
In May
There fire sticks
Rang out amongst
The screams and cries
They slaughtered this
Tribe that Dreaming had
One survived

Slowly I walk
Between these
White weathered
Old dreams of the
A mournful desert
Crow call
Heralds my presence
In these dunes
That didn’t protect
This tribe
On that cold
Morning in May
Authors Note
I am honoured that the Budjiti people
trusted me to tell one of their stories.
I know that I haven’t done it justice
I don’t think anyone could.

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