Words by John Sopar
I come from a story of love.
Of Country, of a tapestry of songlines and dances,
Of land where a whisper touches the very stars.
A love passed down, that wraps around, within, through me,
Desert night cool, bushfire scorching.
I come from a story of pain.
Of children wrenched from loving arms, countless slaughtered, songs fallen silent.
Of hands where hands shouldn’t be, of tears soundless and shame deep.
A pain gifted, unasked for, by aliens, by family.
Our intentions were true, the voices say.
I come from a story of two worlds.
Of bush, and smoke, and water song.
Of Church, and tea, and rush hour traffic.
Too white to be blak, too blak to be white,
Always wrong, never right.
I come from a story of stories.
Of Achilles and Jesus and Santa.
Of Tiddalik and Ngiṉṯaka and the Yara-ma-yha-who.
Stories, truth, myth, all
Shaped by me, shaping me.
I come from a story of hope.
Of family reunited, wrongs made right.
Of reconciliation, walking hand in hand.
A hope for generations, for a better tomorrow,
That we may all see the sun rise anew.
My story is as old as stone, fresh as morning dew.
It is the story of my ancestors, it is the story of my descendants.
It is not yet done, it has not yet begun.