Hope is a Seed in the Red Earth

Hope is a seed in the red earth, where the sun kisses dust-laden ground,
Where time moves slow, and the rivers carve deep, where the echoes of ancestors sound.
This land is old, older than kings, older than borders or steel,
It holds the weight of stories untold, of pain that it struggles to heal.

The wind hums low through ghost gum trees, through hills that whisper names,
Of those who walked before us here, who lit the first bright flames.
Their footprints fade but do not die, their voices ride the air,
And in the soil, their wisdom sleeps, a truth beyond despair.

For though the drought may crack the land, though fire may burn it black,
The roots still twist beneath the ash, the seeds still fight their way back.
For nothing truly dies in soil that holds both grief and dreams,
And even in the darkest days, the smallest ember gleams.

Hope is a seed in the red earth, though history tried to erase,
The footprints, the languages, the songs, the elders’ weathered face.
They drew their lines, they fenced it off, they carved it up like stone,
But land cannot be bought or sold – it never was their own.

They built their towers, drained the springs, turned rivers into trade,
They took the gold, they stole the life, but left the dust unpaid.
They cut the trees, they broke the rock, they pulled the roots apart,
But still beneath their concrete weight, the land retained its heart.

For Country sings in quiet ways, in ways they’ll never know,
It speaks in flame, in flood, in bloom, in tides that ebb and flow.
And though they tried to choke its breath, to burn its beating drum,
The earth is fierce, the land is strong, and one day it will come.

Hope is a seed in the red earth, a spark in a calloused hand,
It lives in those who fight to heal, who listen and understand.
In those who kneel with steady palms and place the roots with care,
Who know the land is not a thing, but something breathing, rare.

It’s in the ones who stand their ground when greed demands they move,
Who say, “This land is sacred still, no matter what you prove.”
It’s in the voices raised so high, in protests shaking streets,
In hands that write, in hearts that fight, in marching, blistered feet.

It’s in the way the forests rise, the reefs begin to mend,
The way that rivers find their song, and wounds begin to end.
It’s in the flames that cleanse, not kill, that spark the next new birth,
For nothing’s lost that’s loved enough – hope waits beneath the earth.

Hope is a seed in the red earth, though storms may shake the sky,
Though oceans rise and fires rage, though years of drought run dry.
For every tree they rip apart, for every stone they claim,
A seed is buried deep below, untouched by ash or flame.

And when the rain at last returns, when hands work not for greed,
The land will open wide again – it only needs the seed.
For forests grow where fire once roared, and rivers carve new veins,
And even deserts bloom in time, reborn beneath the rains.

The children’s hands will till the soil, the young will know the past,
They’ll learn the names, they’ll speak the tongues, they’ll mend the land at last.
And what was lost will rise again, though different, changed, made new,
For hope’s a seed in the red earth, and life still pushes through.

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