Aboriginal Lament

Revelations of Relevance

Haughty faces filled with hate, and dare I say, loathing,

Arrogance apparent, as they stare at our clothing.

They don’t look like us, they are a different folk,

Their women are ‘sheilas,’ and a man is a ‘bloke.’

Their children receive all they ask or desire,

Our children ask only for warmth from a fire.

Moving through the mall, scoffing food as they buy,

They look down upon me, the smelly black guy.

Would it be the case, that off the land we were to live,

My advice they would seek and my advice I would give.

But we’re in their world, and we follow their ways,

Learn our culture they say, all your years, months and days.

They love their system, economy and technology,

We love our land, creatures and ecology.

My brain, my body, is not for the life that they bring,

We are different, have other customs, and songs that we sing.

At best we are frowned upon, from condescending heights,

At worst, invisible, to those in gym gear and tights.

Content with themselves, their self-fulfilled existence,

Our mere presence seems an unwanted persistence.

They don’t know my people, and they really don’t care,

My culture is ‘dark,’ like my skin and my hair,

What of equality? And being united in life?

I wish it were so, while awaiting my wife.

She had to shop, so I sit and wait on this bench,

The fair folks in the mall, circumnavigate my stench.

To them we are putrid, we’re from the past like a scar,

Inhabiting the same land, yet apart we are, so very far.

You have to die a little to live a little, that’s what they say,

As they kill my culture, just a little, each day.

When is our turn? When can we show what we know?

When does our knowledge, our customs and relevance grow?

My wife is approaching, she has bought what we need,

Not what we want, she bought what we need,

We don’t have enough, for desire and greed.

The fair folk disperse, and now it’s me she can see,

I want to leave here right now, and go home to be me,

To our house by the river, our house by the tree.

Our modest house was given, amidst photos and fuss.

Politicians and the media all arrived here by bus.

We live simply here, on the bottom rung of their society,

Drunk in their system, their system of our sobriety.

We get home to childish eagerness and playful hope,

Our children too young, to understand the scope.

I like it here, amongst my folk whom I lead,

I’m respected, no computer, or having to read.

In their system, my knowledge is silenced each day,

No more leading without reading, that’s what they say.

But knowledge you see, is not only words,

What of survival and flowers and berries and birds?

It too is knowledge, the land, the creatures and herds.

They say it’s not knowledge, unless written in words.

We sit outside, warming ourselves with a fire,

It’s against regulation, invoking neighbourly ire.

But we’ve done this forever, on this very land,

They say, it’s not legal, that fires are banned.

We are penalised, fined for doing what we’ve done,

But money we don’t have, our balance is none,

It’s prison for me, yes prison they say,

Prison for you, or your fine you must pay.

These aren’t my laws, and adhere, I cannot,

Their record of me, now has a stain and a blot.

Do this, they say, but that, you dare not,

I’m constrained and detained, that is my lot.

The media arrive, to garner more views,

A celebrity now, I’m all over the news.

I speak of our culture, I tell of our ways,

They pretend to listen, for a couple of days.

Then they forget, and the news cycle moves on,

To the shadows I retreat, from the spotlight, I’m gone.