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Dreamtime

June 7, 2009

The black bushmen sit
in a circle on thirsty grass
telling stories in
the words of their fathers
the rhythm of their fathers’ fathers,
hot sun on thick skins,
fresh cool water trailing down throats

I have walked
and I am dreaming now
dreaming
dreaming of the time I walked
on ochre sand

The black bushmen sit
haphazard on manicured lawn
slurring their mouths around
white men’s words
hot sun glinting off bottle tops
amber fluid falling down throats,
leaking its way into soft borrowed earth

The earth is dreaming now
dreaming
dreaming of the time it bled
and the tough soles of bare feet
caressed its arid scars
dreaming
dreaming now
of blood on ochre land

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