Into moorawathimeering, where atninga dare not tread, leaving wurly for a wilban, tallabilla, you have fled. - Rex Ingamells

This piece of hardwood, cunningly shaped,
Was curved so evenly while piccaninnies gaped
At a warrior who chipped at it with pieces of flint,
And formed it by meticulous dint upon dint.
Outside his wurly he sat beside a tree
And chipped at it patiently for hours—not for me,
But to kill the wallaby in the rocky pass,
To kill the fat wild-turkey hiding in the grass.

Australia is a land that has no people,
for those that were hers we have torn away,
we who are not hers nor can be till love
shall make us so and fill our hearts with her.