A long time ago
A wise old man said:
We are like the kenyalang
We are the kenyalang
When you don't see the kenyalang
Any more, we are also no more.
The kenyalang flew from
Our high forest hills down to the wide open sea
In the freshness of the jungle green
In the brightness of the midday sun
And the warmth of the tropical breeze
Our heaven and paradise
Our little patch of widerness.
For ten weeks in nineteen sixty-three
From July twenty-second, a Monday
To September fifteenth, a Sunday
The kenyalang flew free.
Now the kenyalang cannot find its home
The hole in the trunk is gone
The hole is there, the trunk is not
The kenyalang is now no more
My Fair Land, how have you been
We have failed to protect and honour you
When you were given up to be
Federated, on September sixteenth.