My Spirit flies back to Wattie Creek, as the days seem to take their toll-
I long to sit with my family tribe, down by that old waterhole.
In life I've soared other times dug deep, to bury a raging despair-
and flying or caged, I hold and keep, those memories dear and rare.

Only as a boy when I roamed and ran, the ranges and mountain streams-
is there so clear in the memory span, of my life and all my dreams-
Another time, many years ago, when I was made one of the clan-
given a skin and a family's love, the finest achievement of man.

Donald and Nidje, two proud strong men, the father and brother of mine-
leading a fencing team once again, ramming posts in a perfect line.
Fencing off land that was already theirs, land that was stolen away-
powerful men with their humble hearts, full of dreams for a brand new day.

Hobbles, whose gardening skills were plied, to his vegie plot neat and grand-
his stirring story how Captain Cook tried, to save the tribes and their land.
Cook was called home but failed in the court, to protect the blacks from the guns-
in settlers chains on their backs they brought, the goods to the new stock runs.

As I turned thirty I came of age and was welcomed by patient souls-
feeling our spirits unite as one, we'd gaze in the night fire coals.
You showed me love and silent respect, new-born to the family tree-
a Julima skin the tribe did elect, my family forever to be.

Now as I try with my own blood's kin to seek peace from a painful past-
I call to you and I search within and I climb and cling to this mast.
As waves of neglect crash over me, I search for that sheltering cave-
with brothers and sisters I need to be, not sunk in a selfish grave.

Where did I go and why did I go there and why is this pain so great-
Lingiari's spirit speaks to me, Rangiari, I miss you mate.
Distance and time have chipped at my life and love can't be measured in years-
Vincent is gone from this earthly strife, but Mick is still shedding the tears.

The Spirit of hope that unites our dreams, tugs hard as these doubts I cast-
the black man's face in the silence beams and his tears flow over my past.
From Wattie Creek where we sat unchained, in silence and calm firelight-
the skin of family always remains, through the days and darkness of night.

I see you Vincent through dust and dreams, so patient so humble and strong-
giving new life, returning the pride, so peacefully righting a wrong.
Gentle and calm with soft loving eyes, in silence we'd sit by the fire-
bringing me peace and family love, then back to your camp to retire.

I love you still and visit I must, to free this soul once again-
This aching body may turn to dust, the Spirit is what will remain.
And soar it may 'tween the golden sun and shade 'neath the paperbark trees-
we'll meet at the birth where life began, the tips of the leaves of the trees.

And floating down to the red soil ground, once again on the earth as one-
we'll talk of the past, the lost and found, sit dreaming as father and son.
Rebinding ties, you'll soften my eyes, spread wisdom and calmness around-
a watch I'll keep, as you silently sleep, in the shade in the red soil ground.