Hunterandgatherlament

The Hunter and Gatherers Lament. Gone is our childhood Our hunting and gathering, Existence. Gone forever lost to history. Our innocence Where black- boy plant is our spear. The gift to the hunter. The grasses a gift to the gatherer to weave. Gone is our childhood, Of total acceptance, Of mother protector Of all her children. Gone into our dreams Soaked in illness and alcohol. Gone forever to the dusty plains Of change and white man’s claims, To progress, And dreams of the mighty dollar and greed. Yes, gone my friend but not forgotten. Never ever well we allow, It to be truly lost. For the streets whisper For those to hear For those who wish to really understand. For those with real ears still, Those who can still indeed dream, The mother’s gifts. Those who still can travel, In their dance and their sleep. Those who don’t need, White man’s ways to know Who they really are? Help the young ones Know who they really are. Give the bottle away, The glue and petrol all Will destroy, Who you really are? Remember the true beat Of the clap sticks, And the rhythms Of your family dance. Honor your elders The aunties of the grey-headed ones. Wise old man your grandfather Who can tell, of bygone times, the truth of it all? And who you really are? And dance the dance, Of your family signature beat, Your special gift to the mother.