Before creation times, the world was flat,
smooth as a turkey egg
floating in empty space, without weight,
without sound or colour, wind or light.
There were no stones,
no hills, no creekbeds.
Anarngu1 wiya2 —
No-one lived there;
no fire, no camps,
no sacred sites.
The world was naked. Silent.
Beneath the surface, empowered by some need,
and stirred in its sleep:
a quickening deep inside the earth,
Nothing could hold it.
Pushing its way out,
it cracked the eggshell.
That which had been trapped was free.
Giants crawled from the dirt,
ranging the Land, aimlessly:
the beginning of Men and Women.
They dug for water;
they created fire out of nothing;
they hunted each other —
for food, for payback,
They created the Law and the seasons —
the idea of Family.
They transformed themselves into animals,
rocks and trees;
out of fear, out of desire, out of envy.
Some went to live in the night sky.
At the end of creation times,
the creative spirits became one with the earth.
The record of their lives imprinted
on the land:
made by the Snake giving birth;
pushed up by the Dingo Men
dragging Kangaroo back to their cave.
No-one knows why
the creation times came to an end.
A long time ago,
there was someone who knew.
For a thousand generations,
the people have questioned one another,
Birth to death, ignorance to knowledge,
summer to winter: patterns of a Dreamtime —
the only clues.
anarngu: Aboriginal people
wiya: no, negative