• As she stepped up towards the top,
    A strange sensation began to fill her,
    Her mouth was dry,
    Her hair dusty,
    She stopped walking,
    She had reached the highest point,
    As she looked up the wind beat at her,
    Curly locks of hair whipped about her face,
    And a small tear rolled down her cheek,
    For before her laid down,
    Neither dry plains nor bushland,
    But house after house,
    Road after road,
    Walking, riding talking,
    But not her people,
    Faces like the moon,
    And voices so strange,
    The moon-faces were dangerous,
    They had stolen her lands,
    Built on the sacred lands,
    Her feet fell beneath her,
    A kangaroo hopped away,
    This was her she thought,
    Her hopping away from a place,
    No longer a welcoming site,
    But a harsh town of unhappy new comers,
    Unwilling to ever share,
    I shall too hop away,
    So with one last look at the unfamiliar maze,
    She turned to face the bushlands,
    Whose Arms were wide open,
    And she ran,
    Far-far away.