Illawonga

As the Murray gently flows, through riverbed once land, 

The rain gently pitter-patters, 

Leaving muddy marks, 

Children nearby, in a glorious campground, 

Rest for the next days to come. 

As the Murray gently flows through riverbed once dry ground, 

Children ride a boat to an ancient worn-down cave, 

Filled with the spirits of generations of animals, 

In the pitch-black passages, 

Their boat roars to a halt, 

The rain slowly creates puddles, bigger than busses, 

In the winter season, where memories are made, children played. 

All is calm, in Illawonga, 

The grass grows, the birds fly, 

And people don’t hurt each other, 

As it’s always calm, in Illawonga. 

As pollution increases and air quality worsens, 

The fate of these sacred grounds is in jeopardy, 

These sacred grounds will be destroyed, 

And people can no longer enjoy, these holy lands.