If you travel south for a hundred mile,
Turn left when the radio goes off the dial,
Wind down a track beneath the trees,
You’ll arrive at a place called Badja.
Where the seasons end and begin again,
Wild grass untouched by the trappings of men,
Where hills turn to valleys then back again,
Few see the likes of Badja.
How I got there was pure chance,
I met a girl and we began to dance,
She said do you know where the water is pure,
As a child in a place called Badja.
Do you know where the fox pups play without threat,
Where freedoms yours without the debt,
And no matter how old you never age,
Come with me to Badja.
How I got there I could never repeat,
Nor where I walked with my virgin feet,
But often I go there when I’m in need of rest,
In my mind we’re back in Badja.
Michael Douglass, 2008.