Christopher Houston & Brett Lock
Onto the rock a mother gives birth.
The red blood of her life stains this earth.
A gift from our gods, the voice of the beat,
as drums call the rain to battle the heat.
A calling cry flies through the valleys
A calling cry the blood’s run dry
In madness and panic we stab at the sands,
but the red that we find is the blood on our hands.
We dig through the night and toil through the day,
in search of the earth the gods took away.
In a cave hyenas barking
In a cave the blood is found
The rain in the distance follows our drums.
The beat strikes like lightning birds as the rain comes.
It washes the rock where our mothers once bled,
and blood flows in rivers which stain the earth red.
A thunder of wings as the sky turns blood red,
the reply of our drums, the beat in our heads.
Our feet and our hands the colour of earth.
The ochre, the iron, the taste of rebirth.
A river dry is death’s own alley
A river dry as mother’s cry
The rain in the distance follows our drums.
The beat strikes like lightning birds as the rain comes.
It washes the rock where our mothers once bled,
and blood flows in rivers which stain the earth red.
Blood on my hands, on my body and face.
Beating of blood in our hearts, in our veins.
We cover the earth, we track different mud.
We all look the same when we’re covered in blood.