Where we are Wild

Our hut is where we can be wild things,
Grind our sticks until they are as sharp as arrow tips, 
Smear our faces with charcoal then we are wild things again,
Sharpen our swords on the rock that we have peeled the skin off.

Our hut is where we can be wild things,
Sit around our hearth made from moss and stones,
Our hut is made from sticks, ground into the dust,
Broken windows and wood lying like broken bones.

Our hut is where we can be wild things,
Fallen trees a platform for our thoughts,
The dusty golden balls of wattle makes our noses twitch,
As people walk by we aim our bows and arrows and fire at will. 

Our hut is where we can be wild things, 
Its broken shell whispers secrets of children who come and go,
Its shoulders are tattooed in engraved names,
Our hut stands and falls and is rebuilt again.

Our hut is where we can be wild things,
But for today, we hang our bows up, 
We rub off our sooty faces,
Return to our tame and scheduled lives.