The land of sun and droughts, Where rolling hills will stray, Where oceans skip and lick at lone shores, Where the cloud cries their fury, Down onto the living below, This is the country of burnt stories.
Laughing kookaburras smile, Slithering in bushes are reptiles of the rainbow, Vast lands full of red and brown, Pathways that snake around the lakes, Tanned children running barefoot, On silvery strips of broken rocks beckoning to the waves, This is the country of burnt stories.
The whispering winds that tells you secrets, The deep songs of the buried in the scorched sand, Melodies of the natives’ echo through the dark, hollow caves of emptiness,
Rattling of rusty cans string behind, leaving a trail of vibration, The singing of the drowned pulls the crashing waves forward and backwards, The yearning fires crackle and scream, spreading their anger, This is the country of burnt stories.
Smoke wafts through the salty air, Rotten carcasses stain the surrounding, Flies caressing their limp, lifeless bodies. The stink of the heat beats it’s wings down upon the dried land,
The ice, cold peaks of mountains radiate loneliness, A fire upon the blanket of snow shows the way with the tantalizing smell of promise, This is the country of burnt stories.
Grit and rocks fill mouths that are wide open, Fresh soaked fishes bleed flesh into hungry stomachs, An aura of mystery hovers around as the taste of fouled water trickles into your mouth,
Horse or sheep that has dirtied the stream? Old mutton leaves the tongue numbed, Crisp flakes of bacon flavor your growling hunger, This is the country of burnt stories
Roughed plains of life scar your knees, The paled sand engraves marks into the sole of your feet, Lighting strikes marks into the patterned street, The cold biting waters nip at ankles, A scorching sun creates streams of water into rushing waterfalls down a red back,
This is the country of burnt stories.