"The call of the strange bird is heard
on the pipe of the breathing floor;
so high will become the bushels of wheat
that man will cannibalise his fellow man . . ."
Nostradamus, circa 1568 (Quatrain 75)
We learn, yet forget, in the cataclysm of our birth
the owl songs of Muk Muk;
the death feather, reacquainted we will be again
in the sunset of our mortality.
(The call of the strange bird is heard . . .)

The dijeridoo sits in the corner of my room
near the window, ghosts breathe
my frailty of spirit
resonates in the acoustics of this gouged plain.
(. . . on the pipe of the breathing floor . . .)

The dark skin ripped apart
perished seeds of the Dreamtime
to the new crops of the Invader;
blood furrows this occupied soil of neo-pestilence.
(. . . so high will become the bushels of wheat . . .)

Harvested by the demon-seed of the Invader,
and grain-fed the insatiable hunger of the Dictator
they danced, until caught red-handed
the hands bite the hands that have fed them.
(. . . that man will cannibalise his fellow man . . .)