Foreign Masterpiece

The colours dance,
They spiral and swirl,
Running a race,
Or speeding down a hill.
A blob of paint on a blank canvas,
Might not mean that much,
But to me it means the world,
A different world to us.

Once a population thriving,
Has declined in many numbers,
Their art was like a language,
All that they have left,
Dots of yellow, brown, red and white,
Is an array of traditional colours.
Take a walk into your bush land,
And maybe you will see,
Little tiny handprints and paintings of the trees.

Far away they sit,
Painting more like these,
Spirals, swirls, swells,
More star-like creations.
It is like we have evolved too much,
And they have been left behind,
How much I would give to spend a day,
In this village lost in time.