Brenda Saunders
Garama-marri: the great steal
Let us search deeper to hold our first language
in place, remember our roots are ancestral
enduring as the great figs circling Gingaculla
These dirt-covered hands reach and sift, uncover
traces of a world before the smoke from Boree
warned of white clouds, big canoes floating in
I dig up songs under the sand, hear music
in names for headlands, islands, fishing bays
walla-mulla, matta-wunga, yarong, karajeen
tunnel through hardened rock, catch echoes
of the Gadigal, Kamergal, Bidigal, Warigal
laughter under shell middens at Were-Were
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Stranger spirits from the east created new words
for this place, denied the truth of our belonging
set down their own roots in our camping places
spread as white ants to Nations beyond the coast
brought a sickness that changed our lives forever
People ask, how do you find the forgotten words
so I dig until mud settles under my fingernails
unearth verbs that will carry our story, shape
our lives into something more than stolen or lost
carry us beyond the past into a present tense
baiya-barrabugu, barawu-warra, old sounds
old meanings to heal this forgetting country.
Gingaculla: Rose Bay
Boree: North Head
walla-mulla, matta-wunga, yarong, karajeen: harbour landmarks
Gadigal, Kamergal, Bidigal, Warigal: the Sydney clans
Were-Were: Kirribilli
baiya-barrabugu, barawu-warra: to speak strongly, look forward