He walks across the dry hot land.
Boomerang held in his black, wrinkled hand.
His head is bare to the scorching sun.
He’d be glad when the heat of the day was done.
He had trekked this path, for many a year.
Sometimes he shed a silent tear.
He never had like to kill the Roo.
It was something he knew, he had to do.
Was there a place for him to lie down?
Far away from the white mans town.
Where he could gaze up, into clear blue skies
Wait for his aged body to die.
He longed for the days when he could roam,
Over all of this land, that he called home.
And call of the Dingo, high in the hills.
As they waited for, him to make a kill.
He laughed to himself, as he scratched his head.
“That’s where I’ll make my final bed”.
He made for the hills, where the Dingo’s played.
He reached a cool spot at the end of the day.
He tucked the Boomerang under his head.
As he lay down on his Spinafex bed.
His fingers clutched at the hot red sand.
“This is my home. This is my land”.
In the distance a didgeridoo sang.
He looked up at the starlit sky.
Love filled his dark brown eye's.
He howls with the Dingo’s on hot summer nights.
Runs with the Roo in the cool morning light.
His voice can be heard, if you stay very still.
“This is my land” he shouts from his hill.
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