Once, while travelling through a flat and fruitful land,

I met the shadow of a long-forgotten band.

“Who are you, and where are you from?” asked I.

“We are from this every land,” came the shade’s reply.

“But who are you, now just a shade?

And why does memory of you now all but fade?”

In response, a doleful voice that sighed and sobbed

Told me the tale of a people robbed.

“This was our land, our country our home!

We were content until the new man come.

This was our land, but they chased us away.

In voices of guns, ‘Give us your home!’ said they.

Some went, some fought, many died.

At the sight of our people’s blood we cried.

The new man wanted this bountiful plain;

And for it, many of our innocent were slain.”

The shadow then sighed upon reaching conclusion.

“But to most, this may seem a delusion.

We found in defense, yet were handed the blame.”

“Shadow,” I whispered, “Are the new man and I the same?”

“No, child, your ancestors the new man are.

But you alone have done us no wrong — thus far.”

Thoughts of what transpired in days gone by

Brought a catch to my throat and a tear to my eye.

The band is long gone, and hears me no more

As I deeply beg pardon for my ancestors who invaded this shore.