The Scent of Blood on the Bush: A Guardian's Cry
A Kaadan's(chieftain's) heart, bound by ancient law.
The old ones spoke, their voices in the breeze,
Of roots that hold us, deeper than the trees.
My people danced, beneath the sun's warm gaze,
The drumbeat echoed through our sacred days.
We hunted strong, the river's bounty shared,
Each creature honored, each life truly cared.
This was our world, a harmony profound,
Where spirits lingered, on ancestral ground.
Then distant ships, like hungry gulls they came,
Bringing a smoke that whispered profit's name.
They spoke of 'progress,' a word that chilled the bone,
And built their towers, on ground that was our own.
The forests fell, a mournful, rending sound,
As ancient giants crashed upon the ground.
Their iron bite, it tore the Earth's soft skin,
And poisoned waters, where life had always been.
My heart, it weeps, for rivers turned to dust,
For hunting grounds, consumed by rust.
The animals flee, their ancient paths erased,
And children question, what once was embraced.
They call it 'growth,' this scarring of the land,
But all I see, is ruin in their hand.
The sky grows dim, where eagles used to soar,
And silence lingers, at my people's door.
But still we stand, though weary and in pain,
The spirit of our Country, will remain.
I am the voice, of those who came before,
Who lived and loved, on this ancestral shore.
The land remembers, every broken plea,
And every wound, inflicted on the tree.
My ancestors call, their voices in the wind,
"Protect our home, until the bitter end."
Let them hear this, across their foreign seas,
You cannot own, the rustle of the trees.
You cannot claim, the spirit of this place,
Nor erase the wisdom, etched upon its face.
For if this Earth, my Mother, bleeds too dry,
Then all your towers, will crumble 'neath the sky.
We are the land, its fury and its grace,
And we will rise, to claim our rightful space.
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