I remember the mountains of Africa where I use to seek my God in prayer, my face to the ground and my knees on the sharp rocks.
I swore I heard his voice in Jerusalem as I walked the streets of the old city, my heart open and my faith as big as the love I felt for Him.
In London, I felt Him guiding me along a very narrow line, my hope the flame that guided me when darkness wanted to overwhelm me.
In the Great Southland with its emerald city I looked for His people to be my new home, my kindness and generosity the treasure I bring.
The treasure spent the only voice I hear echoing in my hollow heart is my own, my god my creation is no more and his silence absolute.
I’ll pray a prayer to me. I’ll listen to my voice guiding me along the wide and winding road, my strength and generosity my hope my love for me.
Yaku 