By Roger Chao

A Nation of Apologies

Australia, land of Altjira, of oceans wild and skies untamed,
Where stories of the Jukurrpa are told in songlines proclaimed.
Yet underneath this broad expanse, this dust that shrouds our past in gold,
Lies history’s wound, still open wide, beneath our feet, still damp and cold.
And now, a nation stands once proud, with noble gestures in its hand,
But hollow words, mere fleeting sighs, like shifting dunes on ancient land.

The hand that once oppressed now lifts to show its fragile form contrite,
A gesture made beneath the gaze of stars that watch with timeless light.
The sorry sighs of leaders, pressed into the fabric of the air,
Are like the gulls that cry and wheel, then vanish in the sky’s despair.
Apologies delivered bold, in speeches grand and laced with care,
Are but the surface of the wound, a balm too weak to truly bear.

What good are words, though grand they sound, when empty is the space between,
Where action falters, shifts, and fades, like phantoms in a fevered dream?
A treaty spoken in the wind, but never sealed with lasting hand,
A bridge of words, but still we stand upon the edges of the land.
Where were these voices when the soil was stained with blood and hearts were torn,
When families were ripped apart, and futures broken, futures mourned?

They speak of reconciliation as if it’s something to be sold,
As if by words alone, the past’s great weight can simply be cajoled.
Yet underneath the polished sheen, the blackened history persists,
For sorrys spoken without deeds are vaporous, like the morning mists.
The chains that bound, though long removed, still echo in the bones, the cry
Of generations left to rot beneath the unforgiving sky.

What is an apology, when it floats so lightly on the breeze?
When tears that fall from ancient eyes are brushed aside with practiced ease?
A parchment signed, a ribbon cut, a solemn nod, a day of pride,
And yet the ones for whom it’s meant remain forgotten, cast aside.
For sorrys, once they’ve found their voice, are powerless without resolve,
To right the ancient wrongs and see the shadows of the past dissolve.

Look now upon the fields where blood and earth once mingled in the sun,
Where spears gave way to rifles’ crack, and then the silence that begun.
For words, however sweet they sound, cannot repair the broken bones,
Nor fill the hollowed, aching heart that lies amidst thegraveyard stones.
And as the leaders gather round, to clasp their hands and bow their heads,
The truth remains: the empty page still speaks of what was never said.

Australia, proud of recompense, of ribbons cut and banners high,
What do you see when gazing deep into the wounded spirit’s eye?
For every speech, for every tear, for every sigh that’s softly drawn,
Is but a mask upon the face of history’s relentless dawn.
To say “I’m sorry” is to stand upon the precipice of shame,
But words alone, though full of grace, cannot erase the past’s cruel flame.

There lies a darker truth beneath, a shadow long and cold and stark,
That still invades the settler’s dreams, that whispers through the eucalypt bark.
For every tear and every sigh, for every public show of grief,
Is like the shifting sand upon the shore, too fragile, far too brief.
What good is guilt, when gilded speeches leave the core untouched, unchanged,
When those who suffered still remain, their futures shackled, futures estranged?

The ledger tallies words and wounds, but where’s the payment still not made?
Where are the actions bold and true that sweep away the heinous shade?
A parliament can bow its head, a people can repeat the phrase,
But all these grand apologies are lost beneath the sun’s harsh rays.
What of the lands, the sacred plains, the rivers where the ancestors trod?
What of the souls who cry for justice, crying out – a horse unshod?

To say “I’m sorry” opens doors, but who will walk inside and see
The wounds that fester, still unhealed, in hearts once proud, now bent, unfree?
Apology, though meant in truth, is but the first and smallest step,
For words alone cannot repair the bridges broken by neglect.
And yet the sorrys rise like smoke, ephemeral, and soon dispersed,
While those who carry history’s weight are left to bear its cruel curse.

Australia, land of wide horizons, deep with ancient blood and song,
Your sorrys, spoken loud and clear, do not right what was done wrong.
The grand apologies you send into the skies, though well-contrived,
Are but the shadows of a truth that struggles still to stay alive.
For reconciliation comes not through the words alone, nor grand display,
But through the action yet unseen, the justice owed but long delayed.

What are these words, when in the end, the land remains untouched, unhealed,
When those who own its sacred heart are left to wander, fate concealed?
The ancient trees, the rivers wide, the cliffs that whisper to the sea,
Still hold the stories of the past, still cry for what they cannot be.
So let the nation rise again, not with apology alone,
But with the strength to heal the past, to claim the truth as its own.

For what is sorrow if not paired with the resolve to see it through,
To mend the scars, to break the chains, to start again with something true?
The nation’s heart, once buried deep, will beat again with steady might,
But only when its hands reach out to turn the wrongs into the right.
So let the words fall silent now, until the deeds can match their worth,
And let the sorrys find their rest upon this scarred and ancient earth.