STRANGER IN HIS NATIVE LANDCopyright 1998, S Hartwell
The hunter stands upon the sands,
Upon his horse of grey,
With spear in hand, surveys the land,
At breaking of the day.
And far to each horizon lies
A wilderness of grass,
In hide buildings people rise,
And start their daily tasks -
Pray to the gods and ancestors,
Pray to the sun and rain,
Thank them for that eternal force,
That sprouts and grows the grain.
In the sun, the hunter's son,
Sees strangers on the beach,
He sees them come to paradise,
And wonders what they seek,
And from the far horizon comes,
The great tall-masted ships,
By close of day, in sheltered bay,
A fleet of tall ships sits.
Back to his people runs the boy,
To tell them of the sight,
To tell them of those people come,
With faces ghostly white.
The hunted stands upon the sands,
His face turned to the seas,
He thinks of all his stolen lands,
Bought for a few glass beads,
And to the far horizons rise,
The towering homes of grey,
Their tips so high they scrape the sky
And block the light of day.
No more the hunter's people ride,
With bow and spear in hand,
But with the turning of time's tide
Are strangers in their native land.
WANDERING ANGELSarah Hartwell, 2006
I am just a wandering stranger
In a world that's not my own;
In a world of war and danger,
Just a lost soul far from home -
Far from all that is familiar,
Far away from friends and kin,
Unseen, alone I walk among you,
In this world of suffering.
Human woes no longer reach me,
A lifetime I have walked this soil,
Learnt all mankind could ever teach me -
Sorrow, death and love and toil.
I am just a soul that's weary,
Walked this earth for far too long;
Now I sense a change is nearing,
Almost time this soul is gone.
I can feel the storm clouds gather,
I can smell the winds of war,
I have walked this land forever,
Soon I'll walk this earth no more.
I am just a wandering stranger,
In a world that's not my own,
Walked this world - a fallen angel -
Soon this soul can go back home.