Hark! It is that time, that breeze, that state of mind.
It is a channel to the sea, a channel from you to me.
A great chasm, a shimmering microcosm,
it is returning the rock as it bleeds.
I’ve seen you in the blistering blue
as wave after wave of pure, hot power washes away your sins.
Day after day, the russet engines rumble
yet the world still complies with the whims of the wind.
Stop! Ask what you’ve forgotten,
for you stand upon their graves.
Kneel. Not broken. Run.
Run from the book that saves.
We sit in a ring and sing to one another.
Don’t quit my son, there’s work to be done
and there are things to teach my daughter,
just don’t forget to run. Run from the sightless slaughter.
Yet still the twinge of red remains,
for it is baked into the sand.
Walking out in the reticent rain,
knowing blood is on our hands.
And all the while the bushlands are fading.
And the eye of the desert is closed.
Night comes like the moon is invading
And the sky is blackened with crows.
Though I have a secret I’m yet to spill
despite my wishes to date.
The pride of a nation is a difficult pill,
but there’s time still for something great.
The tides rewind and meet dead centre,
as hands race around the clock.
The door is locked, you may not enter.
The blood is washed from the rock.
Renzo Tweedie is a 2nd year JD student