There is a place named Quelcon near Denmark. This name Quelcon is of Noongar origin, and it means to dodge a spear. The same word was the call of the Noongar eagle man who finding his waterhole covered with the lice of his nephew, the crow, had called on his nephew to dodge the spear he was flinging.
From this one word an epic is born, and a story rests waiting to be told. This place name Quelcon rests like a footprint left by its previous owner and yet remains readily translated by those who know the story of this ancient relationship between eagle and crow, and what went wrong between them.
The crow man aims with his sharpened beak, the spear he holds between his black eyes, and his feathers all shiny hide his thoughts and all he watches.
Yet here in suburbia as green Swan transit buses pass me by I often speak with the crow men I meet. For some crows, they readily introduce themselves as such, and warn you they are watching. Others meanwhile tell you they are curlews or frogs but are crows and attempt to conceal their tracks and intentions.
‘Well, hello,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen you for a long time...’ and he watches and waits for you to react. ‘I was only thinking of you and wondering how you were getting on,’ (but you know he’s come looking for a song or some article he can snatch and fly away with).
See an eagle man taught the Kingfisher who taught me and the murder of crows know it and seek me out. And the crow who would steal the meat from your mouth if you let him is brazen in his perfected art of politeness.
‘Oh, you’re looking great, do you remember when…’ he tries to placate you with his pleasantries, but look close and you can see his skinny black scaly crow legs and feet, sticking out from beneath his trousers and shoes.
‘I need that song,’ he tells me.’ And, if I get it, I will do what I have never done before, I promise I will share my wealth made from the Kingfisher with the Kingfisher’s family of golden swallows.’
And I am inwardly laughing at his charade. A crow man sharing with golden swallows, unheard of—no way!! But he seems so humble, so sincere, and so I make him promise that he will keep his word, but true to his black feathered lice filled kith and kind, he disappears. Ever the crow he is gone, he disappears into thin air with that song never to be seen or heard from again.
He was true to his kind, in every way a crow, as true as the lice beneath his black suit coat, which flaps in the breeze like crow wings, I should have known, I should have seen him coming, but didn’t. Crows don’t hunt their own meat and are always on the take, they always want a piece of yours.
Now this crow man who calls himself a frog and who sings the songs of the Kingfisher, who taught me, he says he learnt them from around the fires of tradition, from the old ones and fires he had sort out to sit by. But all the while he is singing Aaarrk, aaarrk, aaahhh as he constantly patrols and hunts along the highways looking for his next feed of road kill. But unlike most other hunters of road kill, he knows which way to jump—smart crow that!
Now to the Noongar of old, the crow was one of several moieties or divisions within their clan that once endowed social order and rules over who one could marry and, the social attitudes and expected ways and mores of acting within the group. In the southwest the crow or Waardang was one half of the division and Munitj the white cockatoo was another. Both were nephews of the eagle man. In Kellerberrin there was another moiety of birds. My old teacher was a kingfisher or Djooak and I, his adopted son became in turn the golden swallow, or Birrangaa. Kellerberrin holds to different country from that of the western or southern lands of black crows and white cockatoos, and for us kingfishers and golden swallows our knowledge of crows and cockatoos was supposed to give us a deep and enduring suspicion and awareness of them. The white cockatoo who boasts and the crow man who scavenges and watches had supposedly given the peoples of the east a reason to take care, but how easy we forget.
Now the Noongar legend of the crow names him as one who killed his younger swan wife from an act of rage and then who having been saved from drowning by his uncle an eagle man from the east, the crow tracked his uncle’s hidden source of fresh water and dirtied it with his body biting lice. Old crow nephew of the eagle man couldn’t be trusted. But in the bigger scheme of things the crow and eagle were linked by a relationship, one of uncle and the other of nephew, one of teacher and the other of student.
Now further, this story whilst relating to those Noongar who are crows who try to hide it, like their ancestor who tried to hide the fact that he had stolen and polluted the waters of his uncle all those many years ago is also about my experiences of a crow who masquerades as a Wiilo or stoned curlew; who with long skinny legs, big bulging eyes, is all seeing and remains akin to the crow, well camouflaged.
Now this crow who masquerades as a Wirlo walks on skinny legs, and true to the crow has rarely caught his own meat but has lived depended upon the scavenging of another. Now before I knew this crow was indeed a CROW, singing as a crow, with feathers shining like a crow and with black legs of a crow, I imagined something different. He did not boast like a Maanitj or white cockatoo, well not least initially, for he seemed humble and dedicated. He wore a different feather coat entirely, and I had thought, that he wore feathers like my own, for birds of a feather flock together. I even imagined he wore gold under his wings, but true, you seldom see what is under someone’s wing until they fly above you, but ever since I found his lice floating upon the water of the old man’s rock water hole I learnt from, I have known, too late, that he was not the golden swallow I thought he was, but every bit the crow.
Now the etymology of the name Wirlo might be the one who originates from another’s territory, the stranger who comes unannounced to do harm. Noongars still talk of their fears of the feather-foot beyond the lands of their own who travel from the north or east to unleash their magic upon the unwary. My old teacher, old kingfisher spoke one night in whispers, a Yamatji revenge party was moving through the town on their way to Quairading. We all hunkered down and turned out the lights. Now Wirlo remains one that is respected. He stands among a league of messenger birds well-known for his unwanted and feared messages. My old teacher had a song for that bird, the Wirlo, and he’d sing: wirlo wang mai wang woll ta buddin gaabin ngany mai wang woll...singing, ‘Curlew talk, sound and talk, alarm, I wonder who—who does that song belong to, to whom is that weelo singing, I wonder who?’ For the message was most often one of great clarity, ‘Who is that message for, for whom?’ To the Noongar of Albany, the threat of the Will tribe or Wiil ‘strangers’ from the north was never underestimated.
The Wirlo did bring messages and came as ghosts. Uninvited and unwanted men with messages from the north must always have been their consternation, so what did they think when strangers appeared from the ocean in the south? What were these ghosts with their pale white skin, who brought their diseases and strange ways? The Minang Noongar of Albany attempted to claim them as their own ancestors who had returned from the dead, and perhaps that is why their fear of them was lesser than the fear of the northerners.
Thus to Mokare’s people mimicking the ghost’s red coat’s march upon the shore, the Wiil or WIL was a direction and more, much more. Sure north of Albany, way beyond Bluff Knoll with its meeyowl boolaa, old hill with ‘many eyes’ was watching where the six toed, six fingered blood-eaters went creeping this way and that, gnawing upon raw flesh and whose serrated teeth marked every marrow filled bone on which they fed.
Were the Wiil the ‘Wheel-men’ or their word for all people and things, messages, and threats from the north? To the Minang, the southerners, the Wiilo who went crying in the night, were stoned curlew, bad news bearers who on their wings of fright, were bad news singers forecast bringers of death with messages to fear, foretelling future eaters where a stranger’s shaft of spear might finds its mark and dig their future grave.
Now I don’t know why, for what’s behind that curlew’s eye bulging round like the full moon, but we shouldn’t be afraid of him or his tune. I once shared with a Wiilman, I talked into the night near my smoky fire till this smoke of me shared its scent with him, and he within ear shot, listened and mimicked my smoke, and from the smoke of that fire I showed him where to find the old man’s maia, his hut where he lay and his ngaama rock water hole, fresh and deep, and then this Wiilo shape-shifted, he became a crow man and ever since I have seen some parts of him, floating in the cool clear water, his itching flesh eating lice.
His black feathers and white lice still line the bowl where he drank from, his crow tracks still surround the old man’s rock water hole, and like that place named Quelcon we know it is him, how does he think he can mask his theft of the old man’s water when the tracks of him sit so visible upon the soil and page. For from that old man’s hollow I sometimes read his most recent revelations where his black steps upon the white page convey his attempted footsteps dodging spears.
He would try to hide his tracks but we know it is him. ‘Quelcon’ said the eagle man, ‘Quelcon,’ dodge this spear if you can!
Monday, October 9, 2017
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Kings Park, Kaara Kaata: Stories of the Hill
Kings Park, Kaara Kaata: Stories of the Hill
The sign at the brow of the hill says “Morditch yongka barminy.”
“Good kangaroo hunting” reads the translation, but the words mean hard or strong kangaroo hitting?
So could good hunting, be equated with hard hitting?
Maybe it was the chase, call it a hunter’s craft. But I wonder, with words to redefine: “Kwoppiny yongka ngaadanginy,” also means “good kangaroo hunting,” and how might the hunting be good?
Perhaps it was successful or a place that fed groups on masse, but one wonders further, how might it be good hunting on such a steep incline? Moorditch maybe, hard for hitting, and for chasing the careering yongka grey kangaroo baadanginy jumping; that gray flash bark coloured coated being, hard to hit with the spear between the scrub and stone.
And I wonder, and I am not alone, what of kangaroo pads and pit traps beneath the Jarrah and Tuart shades? Wouldn’t pit traps have presented less a risk in their breaking of an ankle or wounds from a deflecting spear?
Then further, I wonder, perhaps this scene of cliff slope hunting was seen before by European eyes upon the cavern wall, through the tales of Europe’s neo-lithic buffalo hunter driving herds over cliffs. And the stories and inferences of those awaiting below, to feast and feed from the thundering hooves were another’s tale of another place, not of Kaara Kaata. Perhaps to the European mind, this was an image too enticing, too inviting a story to ignore.
For from the veranda of this viewing platform, this expanding view beyond the brow from this ancient weather worn hill speaks of stories that remain. For all matter of stories took place here, right where each one stands, where hordes of tourists now wander, here the Noongar stood watching, looking beyond. Together with his wilgied woman and koolang children, they walked to and from their camp, walked in their millennia of their coming and going.
Right here where you stand they stood watching, searching for signs that were watched for by their gathered tribesmen, Noongar that have lived here for thousands upon thousands of years. Here too the Noongar had once read the signs looking far beyond to their distant blue ranges, beyond the blue river, and below or, set against the blue sky they searched above their heads for the waalitj ‘the eagle’ and waardong 'the crow,' and sought word and the sign in a foreigner’s smoke or, for that of their kin.
Here great flocks of visitors continue to pay homage to this hill, and what the Noongar saw, and those from afar are still watching the signs in the seasonal sighting of the ngoolyarrk, the white-tailed black cockatoo and the yearly gathering of old soldiers and tourists who in their thousands from the world they come, to read the empty spaces and the signs beyond.
For most, their focus is a momentarily thing, they carry cameras aimed at things that sparkle, smiling shining teeth of friends, of flowers kangaroo paws and strange feathered birds, but if one persists in their watching, other signs may appear to them. For here from the brow of this hill named Karra Kaata, a name that means something returned to (some say it is a spider or the red-tailed black cockatoo kaarak), like these gatherings of cockatoo, if one watches from this Kaata – this hill, this head that has eyes, one might see that this head looks east to another, to the Kaata Moorr, to the blue hills Darling Range beyond.
And yarragat ‘above,’ and between them both, between these hills beyond and surrounding them lays the blue sky ‘worl.’ And between them, if you look between them both, ngaadaa-ngat beneath and below lie the blue waters of the beerla djoorr where the rivers flow.
Between both Kaata, between both heads and hills are eyes that watch the waters flow. Here maali and bootalang bathe, both swans and pelican preen and gather. You can watch them for hours, drifting past the Maata garup, knee-deep over their shawls of the derbal yerrigan darpal yaarragat past the sharpened shell blades that lie awaiting and aiming in the shallows. For beware, for deeper is their wounding than the stinging cobbler brings – so be aware of where you tread.
And in the limestone caverns embedded in the hill, within Karra Kaatta near Goonininup the Waargal lays asleep, coiled deep within her subterrainean hollows, she waits to see her people gather and in their language speak. And at Kedalak, at twilight, when trees turn from green to gold and day turns to night, and when the sun gives way to the moon, down below at Spring Street, at Kooyamoolup, there you can hear the chorus of the frogs. But for the song of frogs no signs here stands, no signs identify.
Here another sign needs to be written, but one that never has, of this hill this Kaata kaadidjiny ‘ hill listening’, and Kaata djinaanginy ‘hill looking, hill watching’, in respect of the many millennia of the hill’s watching and waiting for those who might return, to stand in silence, to watch and ponder with eyes all seeing, all hearing from this hill, this ancient hill, this kaat, this head with eyes and ears.
The sign at the brow of the hill says “Morditch yongka barminy.”
“Good kangaroo hunting” reads the translation, but the words mean hard or strong kangaroo hitting?
So could good hunting, be equated with hard hitting?
Maybe it was the chase, call it a hunter’s craft. But I wonder, with words to redefine: “Kwoppiny yongka ngaadanginy,” also means “good kangaroo hunting,” and how might the hunting be good?
Perhaps it was successful or a place that fed groups on masse, but one wonders further, how might it be good hunting on such a steep incline? Moorditch maybe, hard for hitting, and for chasing the careering yongka grey kangaroo baadanginy jumping; that gray flash bark coloured coated being, hard to hit with the spear between the scrub and stone.
And I wonder, and I am not alone, what of kangaroo pads and pit traps beneath the Jarrah and Tuart shades? Wouldn’t pit traps have presented less a risk in their breaking of an ankle or wounds from a deflecting spear?
Then further, I wonder, perhaps this scene of cliff slope hunting was seen before by European eyes upon the cavern wall, through the tales of Europe’s neo-lithic buffalo hunter driving herds over cliffs. And the stories and inferences of those awaiting below, to feast and feed from the thundering hooves were another’s tale of another place, not of Kaara Kaata. Perhaps to the European mind, this was an image too enticing, too inviting a story to ignore.
For from the veranda of this viewing platform, this expanding view beyond the brow from this ancient weather worn hill speaks of stories that remain. For all matter of stories took place here, right where each one stands, where hordes of tourists now wander, here the Noongar stood watching, looking beyond. Together with his wilgied woman and koolang children, they walked to and from their camp, walked in their millennia of their coming and going.
Right here where you stand they stood watching, searching for signs that were watched for by their gathered tribesmen, Noongar that have lived here for thousands upon thousands of years. Here too the Noongar had once read the signs looking far beyond to their distant blue ranges, beyond the blue river, and below or, set against the blue sky they searched above their heads for the waalitj ‘the eagle’ and waardong 'the crow,' and sought word and the sign in a foreigner’s smoke or, for that of their kin.
Here great flocks of visitors continue to pay homage to this hill, and what the Noongar saw, and those from afar are still watching the signs in the seasonal sighting of the ngoolyarrk, the white-tailed black cockatoo and the yearly gathering of old soldiers and tourists who in their thousands from the world they come, to read the empty spaces and the signs beyond.
For most, their focus is a momentarily thing, they carry cameras aimed at things that sparkle, smiling shining teeth of friends, of flowers kangaroo paws and strange feathered birds, but if one persists in their watching, other signs may appear to them. For here from the brow of this hill named Karra Kaata, a name that means something returned to (some say it is a spider or the red-tailed black cockatoo kaarak), like these gatherings of cockatoo, if one watches from this Kaata – this hill, this head that has eyes, one might see that this head looks east to another, to the Kaata Moorr, to the blue hills Darling Range beyond.
And yarragat ‘above,’ and between them both, between these hills beyond and surrounding them lays the blue sky ‘worl.’ And between them, if you look between them both, ngaadaa-ngat beneath and below lie the blue waters of the beerla djoorr where the rivers flow.
Between both Kaata, between both heads and hills are eyes that watch the waters flow. Here maali and bootalang bathe, both swans and pelican preen and gather. You can watch them for hours, drifting past the Maata garup, knee-deep over their shawls of the derbal yerrigan darpal yaarragat past the sharpened shell blades that lie awaiting and aiming in the shallows. For beware, for deeper is their wounding than the stinging cobbler brings – so be aware of where you tread.
And in the limestone caverns embedded in the hill, within Karra Kaatta near Goonininup the Waargal lays asleep, coiled deep within her subterrainean hollows, she waits to see her people gather and in their language speak. And at Kedalak, at twilight, when trees turn from green to gold and day turns to night, and when the sun gives way to the moon, down below at Spring Street, at Kooyamoolup, there you can hear the chorus of the frogs. But for the song of frogs no signs here stands, no signs identify.
Here another sign needs to be written, but one that never has, of this hill this Kaata kaadidjiny ‘ hill listening’, and Kaata djinaanginy ‘hill looking, hill watching’, in respect of the many millennia of the hill’s watching and waiting for those who might return, to stand in silence, to watch and ponder with eyes all seeing, all hearing from this hill, this ancient hill, this kaat, this head with eyes and ears.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Coat of Cliff Humphries
Your old coat. 27:06:2000
There, can you see her? I ask.
There on the horizon
ben-arng with light,
and her ochre stain.
Yet old man I am tired
and feeling cold in your coat.
“Then kaarrla kaalang,
light a fire” he says.
I continue whispering:
Some say it is darkest and coldest
just before dawn.
“Then better kick the coals
to warm ourselves and watch” he says.
I guess old man
you and I must wait.
This new dawn and colour
she will someday come,
but not yet,
and when old ngaarngk bleeds her ochre stain
all will seem momentous
But right now this nyoongar track is cold...
I am alone.
Often on this journey I could despair.
Carrying your coat,
this quest without promise,
it carries much risk.
And at journey’s end
what will I see?
Will your children take your coat from me?
And will it be enough
to warm their backs against the night’s air?
And what if they despair,
what then?
Will your coat be enough for them?
But typically
your answers are few...
And the journey is long...
And me nidja kaadidjiny noonook
waalanginy-ngayanginy:
with you singing the same one song.
And your spirits are many,
they rise and they fall.
And all seem to haunt me
just before dawn.
Just before dawn
when the sky is still black
and the stars are still flickering afar
I know you and your families there watch me
'cause I can see your shapes in the stars.
There, can you see her? I ask.
There on the horizon
ben-arng with light,
and her ochre stain.
Yet old man I am tired
and feeling cold in your coat.
“Then kaarrla kaalang,
light a fire” he says.
I continue whispering:
Some say it is darkest and coldest
just before dawn.
“Then better kick the coals
to warm ourselves and watch” he says.
I guess old man
you and I must wait.
This new dawn and colour
she will someday come,
but not yet,
and when old ngaarngk bleeds her ochre stain
all will seem momentous
But right now this nyoongar track is cold...
I am alone.
Often on this journey I could despair.
Carrying your coat,
this quest without promise,
it carries much risk.
And at journey’s end
what will I see?
Will your children take your coat from me?
And will it be enough
to warm their backs against the night’s air?
And what if they despair,
what then?
Will your coat be enough for them?
But typically
your answers are few...
And the journey is long...
And me nidja kaadidjiny noonook
waalanginy-ngayanginy:
with you singing the same one song.
And your spirits are many,
they rise and they fall.
And all seem to haunt me
just before dawn.
Just before dawn
when the sky is still black
and the stars are still flickering afar
I know you and your families there watch me
'cause I can see your shapes in the stars.
The Noongar Library of Cliff Humphries
Dark eyes 31:01:99
Dark eyes, Nyoongar eyes look me up and down, you worked with that old man - yarn...?
What they want ?
What am I supposed to say - nartj...?
Yeah, I wandered Kellerberrin’s Massingham Street, baarniny...
I just simply followed my feet, then I climbed into his mind - daandanginy...
Like I climbed into his brain - then wandered corridors that took me to old books and a burning flame - kaalanginy...
What did you see - they ask? djinaanginy...
I saw Volumes of his-story , sagas, Noongar literature,
read of secrets, songs, man-u-scripts and those of women - chapters and chapters of centuries...generations - mai ngaattamornong-koorliny...
I’d be there for weeks at a time, and, you see I had the keys to his mind.
I came and went as I pleased.
But, you know I couldn’t afford a ladder, damned step ladder.
That’s all it would have taken, ATSIC’s promised step ladder - but it never came, yay daandaang daabbatiny...
On the top shelf high above my head down his well lit corridors my stumbling feet were led - kair-koodiny
There many volumes were stacked, its antiquity intact, all of it untouched, unread and waiting - kokkinyininy...
Several shelves were out on loan, his memory fading, never to be returned - kairnyak..
This library of his mind, but with so little time.
I tried to tell ‘em, closing time is near - balartminy kaadjaanginy...
On his death bed, before his last dying breath, I looked into his eyes,
my old friend - werrniny...
This whole library, Nyoongar library,
sagas and all - songs and their law were dying.
Then I heard the Nyoongar crying, when their wailing had ceased, mopoke all sorts of birds were flying or was it the wind - yelbiny...
Then I caught the easterly wind come sighing from the land of his birth - benn bordok...
With the sun.
Dark eyes, Nyoongar eyes look me up and down, you worked with that old man - yarn...?
What they want ?
What am I supposed to say - nartj...?
Yeah, I wandered Kellerberrin’s Massingham Street, baarniny...
I just simply followed my feet, then I climbed into his mind - daandanginy...
Like I climbed into his brain - then wandered corridors that took me to old books and a burning flame - kaalanginy...
What did you see - they ask? djinaanginy...
I saw Volumes of his-story , sagas, Noongar literature,
read of secrets, songs, man-u-scripts and those of women - chapters and chapters of centuries...generations - mai ngaattamornong-koorliny...
I’d be there for weeks at a time, and, you see I had the keys to his mind.
I came and went as I pleased.
But, you know I couldn’t afford a ladder, damned step ladder.
That’s all it would have taken, ATSIC’s promised step ladder - but it never came, yay daandaang daabbatiny...
On the top shelf high above my head down his well lit corridors my stumbling feet were led - kair-koodiny
There many volumes were stacked, its antiquity intact, all of it untouched, unread and waiting - kokkinyininy...
Several shelves were out on loan, his memory fading, never to be returned - kairnyak..
This library of his mind, but with so little time.
I tried to tell ‘em, closing time is near - balartminy kaadjaanginy...
On his death bed, before his last dying breath, I looked into his eyes,
my old friend - werrniny...
This whole library, Nyoongar library,
sagas and all - songs and their law were dying.
Then I heard the Nyoongar crying, when their wailing had ceased, mopoke all sorts of birds were flying or was it the wind - yelbiny...
Then I caught the easterly wind come sighing from the land of his birth - benn bordok...
With the sun.
Ode to the Nyoongar language
Ode to the Nyoongar 07:09:98
Nyoongar Nyoorn - Plenty of time
for their dead, no time for their living.
Nah ! Haven’t the time to record old Jack, this
wadjalla system ties us up.
By the way did you hear the
news - old fella’s gone - Oh nyoorn.
His funerals in Pingelly - big mob’ll come
I bet you.
Yeah Nyoongar songs are special, this language -
our mother’s tongue, grandfather’s tongue so special.
Old Flo knew it all, the last of that lot to know
the lore - just hope someone remembered. Yeah this
wadjalla system keeps us busy, big mob
of funerals it drives you...
Jumped up the other day, thought
I heard the mopoke say - nyoorn. Strange how
the spirit seems to sing, especially with word of
death it brings. Yeah old fella’s language
is special, this we know, if only I had time to record
it though.
Nyoongar Nyoorn - Plenty of time
for their dead, no time for their living.
Nah ! Haven’t the time to record old Jack, this
wadjalla system ties us up.
By the way did you hear the
news - old fella’s gone - Oh nyoorn.
His funerals in Pingelly - big mob’ll come
I bet you.
Yeah Nyoongar songs are special, this language -
our mother’s tongue, grandfather’s tongue so special.
Old Flo knew it all, the last of that lot to know
the lore - just hope someone remembered. Yeah this
wadjalla system keeps us busy, big mob
of funerals it drives you...
Jumped up the other day, thought
I heard the mopoke say - nyoorn. Strange how
the spirit seems to sing, especially with word of
death it brings. Yeah old fella’s language
is special, this we know, if only I had time to record
it though.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Noongar by the fire at night time
10th of November 2009 Dark Night
Doolyaa-moornang nidja waariny,
kedalak.
Aali ngaarngk baal nookert ngoorndiny.
Nidja mai baalap nyarni waarngkiny,
kaadidjiny.
"Benang, ngientj kaabeny ngiyang nidja yiddiny,
ngiyang ngany waarngkiny...
Yey wilo-mai waaliny, kaadjaali
gorr-yuaarl-koorliny.
Baal bidiyaa mabarn waarl-koorliny,
ngiyang kwella waarngkiny?
Nyungaara baalap wayerniny,
kaalaa-ngat-boordak-ngat kokinyininy...
Kaadidjiny, kaadidjin-gaa kokinyininy...
Doolyaa-moornang nidja waariny,
kedalak.
Aali ngaarngk baal nookert ngoorndiny.
Nidja mai baalap nyarni waarngkiny,
kaadidjiny.
"Benang, ngientj kaabeny ngiyang nidja yiddiny,
ngiyang ngany waarngkiny...
Yey wilo-mai waaliny, kaadjaali
gorr-yuaarl-koorliny.
Baal bidiyaa mabarn waarl-koorliny,
ngiyang kwella waarngkiny?
Nyungaara baalap wayerniny,
kaalaa-ngat-boordak-ngat kokinyininy...
Kaadidjiny, kaadidjin-gaa kokinyininy...
Monday, July 20, 2009
Nyungar; Noongar, noonaa Moort nganaarng!!
Kaalagap 3:21pm July 20th 2009
Nyungarra! Nyungarra! Windjee nidja Nyungaaraaa!!?
Bookadjaa baalap bookadjaa, kaala-ngat nyininy... mai waangkiny, djurrep-kaadidjiny! One day, when the sun is shining, perhaps in spring, perhaps we might meet again, to sing the songs and speak the words by that fire that we all hope we will one day find welcoming us to sit by.
You know that fire!?!
To play in the smoke, to warm your back, to drink your tea and eat those johnny cakes from the pan and dip those dampers into the juices of the yongka and bacon that sit dookeniny... yuret-ngat dookeniny, daartj noonook benaarnginy, djurrepiny, yep we all dream of that day...
Nyungarra! Nyungarra! Windjee nidja Nyungaaraaa!!?
Bookadjaa baalap bookadjaa, kaala-ngat nyininy... mai waangkiny, djurrep-kaadidjiny! One day, when the sun is shining, perhaps in spring, perhaps we might meet again, to sing the songs and speak the words by that fire that we all hope we will one day find welcoming us to sit by.
You know that fire!?!
To play in the smoke, to warm your back, to drink your tea and eat those johnny cakes from the pan and dip those dampers into the juices of the yongka and bacon that sit dookeniny... yuret-ngat dookeniny, daartj noonook benaarnginy, djurrepiny, yep we all dream of that day...
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