Eye of the Ancestors (For Constance & the Storm-Walkers of Minjerribah)

Lyrics

The old moon swallowed the tide’s whisper,
Pulan Pulan hums in the winds grand swirl—
Grandmother’s soul lifts up high,
Her breath in the pressure’s note.
Twelve past midnight, the year cracked wide,
She slipped through the veil’s thin thread…
Now Alfred comes, a spiralled storm,
Dancing through where her story led.

Minjerribah, turn your face east,
Where the storm-child gnaws the dawn.
The ancestors stitch the sky’s torn seams—
Their bones are the bedrock and sand we stand on.

Oh, Eye of the storm, carve us a mirror—
Show us the face of the rain.
We’ll trade our shadows for mornings first light,
And write our loss in darkness's name.
Minjerribah, the Dreaming is breathing,
Through circuits of lightning and grief.
We’ll meet you there, where the calm is a cipher—
In the storm’s eye, the world we decode.

Millar’s hands ground the comet’s dust,
Her palms etched  crocheting slippers.
Now the cyclone’s jaw chews the shore—
Time’s chaff on the ocean floor.
Her voice a wind swept hymn…
While our hearts flames lick the tempest’s script—
A psalm in the spiral’s rim.

March’s sixth night— memory unspools,
A loom of chaos and a cure.
The world drinks the booze and cheers,
As the dunes kneel, unsure.
But while our pulses count the thunder’s creed—
No heart is a stranded thing.
The land’s old scars bloom new dreams,
While the storm birds start to sing.

ॐ वायवे स्वाहा (Om Vayave Swaha)
Wind, carry her home.
ॐ नमः शिवाय (Om Namah Shivaya)
Storm, rewrite the loam.

Now the eye’s throat hymns a lullaby,
A cradle of stolen sound.
While a new babe dreams in mothers womb—
A thousand pearls unbound.
Here, the ancestors barter breath—
Trading gales for a single fern.
Constance’s laugh in the eye’s still vault…
A language the tides will learn.

A community sighs in the vacuum’s cleft,
The veil’s weave starts to fray.
What the storm unnames, the calm reclaims—
We are both the dust and the clay.
Alfred’s name rides the dragonfly’s wing,
Where ancestors dwell in streams…
We’ll barter the wind for an elder’s hymn—
The land remembers what it means.

So let the southerly scrawl its psalms,
On the skin of the shivered sea.
Pulan Pulan, two worlds entwined—
Her death, a mangrove key.
And when the stormbirds call parts the cloud,
We’ll parse the wind’s old rune:
Child, you’re the storm’s first alphabet—
And the moon’s second monsoon.
For Constance’s song in the cyclone’s tongue—
We see the light,
We see the way.
Steadfast into a new day.

Thanks to you dear grandmother,
Our lives continue on\!
If not for you dear Constance
We would never have been born\!

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