5 Poems About the Stolen Generation That Will Leave Your Eyes Teary

Written by Gabriel Cruz - Foodie, Animal Lover, Slang & Language Enthusiast

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In a world where words fail to capture the depth of pain and trauma inflicted upon the Indigenous Australian community, poetry stands tall as a powerful tool for healing and storytelling. Today, we bring you 5 heart-wrenching and poignant poems about the Stolen Generation, a dark chapter in Australia’s history that shattered families and communities. Join us as we delve into the emotions and experiences of those impacted by this tragic event through the lens of poetry about the stolen generation.

Whispers of the Stolen Ones

In the crimson womb of history,
Where tears like rivers flow,
Lies a tale of stolen children,
Whispers of the stolen ones, we know.

Upon the canvas of Australia,
A palette of cultures merged,
In this dance of different colors,
A somber melody emerged.

The stolen ones, they called them,
Taken from their homes, their kin,
To blend into a world unknown,
Their lives forever changed within.

The distant cries of mothers,
Their sorrowful lullabies,
The echoes of a father’s plea,
A family’s dreams, they agonize.

In dormitories, crowded, cold,
The stolen ones were taught,
The ways of the oppressor,
Their heritage, a distant thought.

They yearned to feel the red earth,
Beneath their weary feet,
To hear the songs of ancestors,
In the wind’s eternal beat.

To feel the warmth of kinship,
In the stories of their past,
To mend the severed branches,
Of their family tree, so vast.

The stolen generation,
A legacy of pain,
In the hearts of the forgotten,
Their memories shall remain.

Through the endless expanse of time,
The winds of change do blow,
The stolen ones, they whisper,
Their voices soft and low.

“Remember us, the stolen ones,
Our stories, our despair,
Acknowledge us, the broken hearts,
The ones who were never there.”

“Embrace the wounds of history,
A tale that’s marred with strife,
To forge a path of healing,
In this ever-changing life.”

The stolen ones, they whisper,
Their voices, a mournful song,
Calling for truth and justice,
To right a century’s wrong.

In every breath of wind,
In every sunlit ray,
The whispers of the stolen ones,
They guide us on our way.

For in the midst of sorrow,
In the depths of despair,
Lies a glimmer of hope,
A promise in the air.

A bridge of understanding,
A path to reconcile,
The stolen ones, they whisper,
Their voices are soft and mild.

“Join hands, unite as one,
In the spirit of love and peace,
Let the whispers of the stolen ones,
Guide us to release.”

And so, the tale of the stolen ones,
In our hearts, we shall preserve,
For in the whispers of the lost,
Their spirit shall endure.

Echoes of the Vanished Voices

Upon the sunburnt land, they thrived,
The ancient ones, so free,
Their roots entwined with earth and sky,
In sacred harmony.

The children of the Dreamtime,
Their laughter filled the air,
Unknowing of the shadows,
That would soon befall them there.

A storm of foreign footsteps,
Beneath the southern skies,
Set forth a wave of sorrow,
From which the stolen ones would rise.

The title: “Assimilation”,
A policy, a plan,
To strip away their culture,
And mold them in the image of the white man.

From families torn asunder,
The stolen children wept,
In alien worlds, they wandered,
Where memories of home were kept.

Their mother tongues, forbidden,
Their stories, silenced, lost,
The stolen generation’s legacy,
A price too high, too great a cost.

The mothers wailed in anguish,
The fathers cried in pain,
The stolen children vanished,
Like whispers in the rain.

Institutions cold and lifeless,
Held them in their grasp,
The stolen ones, they struggled,
To breathe, to love, to clasp.

And yet, within their hearts,
A fire burned so bright,
A spark of hope, resistance,
In the darkest depths of night.

For in the winds of change,
The seeds of truth were sown,
The stolen generation’s story,
Would not be silenced, not disowned.

Their voices, soft and steady,
Echoed through the years,
A chorus of determination,
Rising through the tears.

“We are the stolen children,
Our legacy, our fate,
In the shadows of the past,
A future we create.”

“Let our voices be a beacon,
A call to heal, to mend,
To bridge the chasm of our history,
And forge a new way, hand in hand.”

The stolen ones, they whispered,
Their message, pure and clear,
A plea for love, for unity,
For a world without hate or fear.

In the echoes of the vanished,
The whispers of the breeze,
The stolen generation’s voices,
Bring forth a song of peace.

For in the scars of history,
In the pages stained with pain,
The stolen ones, they teach us,
That love and hope remain.

So let the whispers of the lost,
Guide us on our quest,
To honor the stolen generation,
And lay their spirits to rest.

 

Words for the Uprooted Souls

In the land of sun and silence,
Where the eucalyptus whispers sway,
The stolen children’s footsteps echo,
Long-lost memories that won’t fade away.

A history marred with sorrow,
In the heart of Terra Australis,
The stolen generation’s legacy,
Four hundred words could never dismiss.

A time of forced removal,
A plan to tame and civilize,
The seeds of pain were sown,
As families were torn and victimized.

The children, young and fragile,
Ripped from their mothers’ embrace,
Forced to walk a path of strangers,
Leaving shattered dreams in their wake.

Their faces, like the ochre earth,
Rich with stories never told,
Four hundred words to paint their pain,
Yet their resilience shines like gold.

In foreign homes and institutions,
Their spirit, they tried to break,
But within the stolen children’s hearts,
A fire refused to abate.

To sing the songs of ancestors,
To know their ancient lore,
Four hundred words to heal the wounds,
Of a people longing for more.

The mothers cried, the fathers grieved,
The families left to mourn,
A generation’s stolen voices,
In the tapestry of time, forlorn.

And in the shadows of this history,
A truth lies buried deep,
Four hundred words to seek redemption,
For the promises we failed to keep.

Through the passing of the seasons,
The stolen ones endured,
Their voices rising like the phoenix,
Their message, strong and sure.

“We are the children of the Dreamtime,
Our spirits will not yield,
For in the heart of every stolen child,
A future can be revealed.”

“Four hundred words to bridge the gap,
To build a world anew,
Where love and understanding,
Shall heal the wounds, undo.”

The stolen generation’s whispers,
In the wind, they softly sing,
A call to mend the broken bonds,
And let the healing begin.

In four hundred words, we cannot capture,
The depth of pain and loss,
But we can pledge to honor them,
In every bridge we cross.

For in the stolen children’s stories,
A lesson we must learn,
To seek the truth, embrace our past,
And help the tide to turn.

So let the echoes of the stolen ones,
Resound across the plains,
Four hundred words to pay tribute,
To their courage, their strength, their chains.

 

Four Hundred Words of Healing Shadows

Beneath the boundless azure skies,
Where ancient spirits roam,
The tale of the stolen children,
In four hundred words, we’ll comb.

Upon this sun-kissed continent,
A darkened past belies,
The stolen generation’s story,
A wound that never dries.

Ripped away from loving arms,
Their heritage denied,
Forced to walk a foreign path,
Their tears, they could not hide.

Four hundred words to paint their grief,
Four hundred words to share,
The legacy of the stolen ones,
Their pain, their hope, their prayer.

The mothers’ cries, the fathers’ rage,
The families torn apart,
The stolen children’s silent screams,
Echo in our hearts.

In the shadows of this history,
A truth we must embrace,
Four hundred words to seek the light,
To heal, to learn, to trace.

Their spirits, strong and unbroken,
Resilience in their core,
The stolen generation’s anthem,
In their hearts, forevermore.

“We are the children uprooted,
But we will not be erased,
Four hundred words to mend the dream,
The love we must retrace.”

In the midst of their endurance,
A flame of hope, ablaze,
Four hundred words to honor them,
A tribute, a solemn praise.

Institutions, cold and sterile,
Could not quell their fire,
The stolen ones, they rose above,
A testament to desire.

To reconnect with kin and land,
To reclaim their birthright,
Four hundred words to soothe their souls,
To guide them through the night.

And as we share their story,
In four hundred words or more,
We vow to heal the chasm,
That history’s left to soar.

Let the whispers of the stolen ones,
Be our compass in the gale,
Four hundred words to light the way,
As we traverse this healing trail.

For in the words we offer,
In the stories that we tell,
We find the strength to honor them,
And break the silence’s spell.

So with four hundred words of healing,
We seek to right the wrong,
To stand beside the stolen ones,
United, proud, and strong.

The Unsilenced Truth

In the hallowed halls of memory,
Where shadows stain the past,
A tale of the stolen children,
In four hundred words, we’ll recast.

Upon the vast and arid landscape,
Where Dreamtime stories thrive,
The stolen generation’s heartache,
Through time, they would survive.

A scheme of forced assimilation,
Their culture to erase,
A generation torn from family,
Their bonds, they could not retrace.

Four hundred words to tell their tale,
Four hundred words to impart,
The grief and strength of the stolen ones,
Whose voices touch our hearts.

The mothers’ weeping, fathers’ anguish,
The shattered lives they bore,
In four hundred words, we seek to heal,
A past we can’t ignore.

The stolen children, ever stoic,
Their spirits unconfined,
In the face of strife and hardship,
Their resilience, a beacon to mankind.

“Four hundred words to voice our truth,
Four hundred words to mend,
The scars left by the hands of time,
To forge a future without end.”

Amidst the pain of separation,
A fire of hope, alight,
Four hundred words to bear witness,
To their unyielding fight.

To reconnect with roots and heritage,
To rekindle stories lost,
Four hundred words to offer solace,
To acknowledge the human cost.

As we honor their journey,
With every heartfelt verse,
We vow to learn from their story,
To vanquish history’s curse.

Let the voices of the stolen ones,
Guide our path to reconciliation,
Four hundred words to bridge the divide,
In a unified, harmonious nation.

For in the words we share,
In the truth we dare embrace,
We find the power to uplift them,
And grant them rightful space.

So with four hundred words of homage,
We strive to change the tide,
To stand with the stolen generation,
Side by side, with love and pride.

 

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