Natives - Christy Moore

For all of our languages, we can’t communicate

For all of our native tongues, we’re all natives here

Sons of their fathers dream the same dream

The sound of forbidden words becomes a scream

Voices in anger, victims of history

Plundered and set aside, grown fat on swallowed pride

With promises of paradise and gifts of beads and knives

Missionaries and pioneers are soldiers in disguise

Saviours and conquerors they make us wait

The fishers of men they wave their truth like bait

With the touch of a stranger’s hand innocence turns to shame

The spirit that dwelt within now sleeps out in the rain

For all of our languages, we can’t communicate

For all of our native tongues, we’re all natives here

The scars of the past are slow to disappear

The cries of the dead are always in our ears

Only the very safe can talk about wrong and right

Of those who are forced to choose, some will choose to fight

For all of our languages, we can’t communicate