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 the graveyard 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.
Also by Roger Chao: Digital Serfs
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Australia, land of stories old, of earth and sky in vast embrace,
Where voices echo through the years, not bound by guilt, not locked in place.
Yet some would carve from past a wound, and hold it raw for all to see,
As though the present must be chained to sorrow’s cold eternity.
The hand that reaches out in grace, dismissed as hollow, weak, and frail,
As if no step could ever count, no bridge be built, no heart prevail.
What use to rend the past anew, to let it fester, raw and deep,
When forward lies the open road, and dreams are ours to build and keep?
For every sigh and tear they scorn, there stands a truth they cannot break:
A nation moves beyond its pain, for unity’s and freedom’s sake.
What worth is found in endless blame, in wounds re-opened, scars re-torn,
When futures wait beyond the dawn, where brighter hopes and lives are born?
Where were these voices when the call was made to heal, to mend, to grow?
They linger not to raise a hand, but only point to ancient woe.
A treaty signed may bind the past, but never futures yet unseen,
Nor drag us back to haunt the dust where sorrow’s ghost has always been.
Apologies, they say, are wind—mere breath that drifts upon the air,
Yet speak as though the only path is pain that none could ever bear.
But is there justice in a past that weighs like iron on the soul,
Or in the steps we take today to make the shattered spirit whole?
What use is guilt if worn like chains, if progress bends beneath its weight?
No nation rises from the ash by clinging tight to ancient hate.
For what is memory if not light—a guide, not prison to confine?
To hold the past as living flame is but to burn the future’s line.
Look not to fields where blood was spilled to shroud the present in the dead,
But to the land that breathes anew where hope and vision forge ahead.
For every voice that claims the wound is all that binds us to the land,
Another builds a better world with open heart and willing hand.
Australia, land of present bold, where future waits for those who dare,
Not bound by ghosts that wail and fade, but hearts who choose the road of care.
What good are words? They plant the seed—yet action grows the mighty tree,
And progress moves, despite the cries that claim we’re never truly free.
Let speeches ring, let sorrows fade, let new horizons take their place,
For endless blame cannot restore a nation seeking truth and grace.
The land remembers, this is true—but let it echo not with pain,
But voices clear and hearts resolved to break the shadow’s coldest chain.
Apologies are but the start—but what if grace were left to bloom?
What if the future stood unbound from endless, echoing, ancient gloom?
To speak of wrongs is not to heal, unless we rise and walk as one,
For only then can darkness yield before the bright and rising sun.
Alas, I cannot answer with poetry. My literary skills lie elsewhere.
In my studies it is clear that apologies and even the negative feelings of guilt about the past wrongs present clear opportunities for positive change – providing that buy-in-feeling is presented with a way of doing something about it.
Maybe I will have to submit something about how guilt and or shame can lead to people wanting to find answers or solutions to begin to heal some of the damage done. Feelings of guilt and shame can be used constructively because that indicates an emotional buy into the issue.