Maybe the flute was the only perfect language the perfect prayer the perfect grief, for what was taken the loss of purity the rape of the land.

Maybe this flute would remind us of the spirit behind these proud people, of that healthy pride we lost.

And now, white and mixed, we stand, fighting the curse of our shame.

Rivers of blood flow, flow from severed veins, the bonds of our disturbed harmony, the bond with the land.

In shame, the ocean drowns its fish, the black oil sticks. Can we breathe today-we-say, confused, attacked and worried.