Körero maumahara körero nehe! Spoken lies closer than written: Paper is so thin...
Ancestors coming back from Te Papatuanuku to tell it,
Not to dismiss the paper story - but parallel it:
To end is to begin.
Thinking back to when I had a rock in my pocket - in my flesh,
An old dream or a memory:
How to give what you do not own? How to take it, sell it, steal it?
Who can make a stone?
White picket fence - bought at my expense so I axed your flagpole.
Forced to play your paper games;
I raise my hands and scream the names of those whose bones you probe,
And mourn the new me - a xenophobe.
Face like a frog - I, a frog, pinned and cut open;
I, a frog, looking right at you - squirming,
I, a frog, lost son of Apakura - squirming!
I, a frog, without mana ; much unspoken.
With the old stories as ropes I am rappelling,
Jumping like a frog down the side of the mountain of telling.
Approaching but never reaching a place to stand,
Fighting to define my frog self - reaching out a hand.
Click-click-clicky-click hitting keys now though really speaking;
Two grand narratives I am telling... two of them together weaving.
Te mutunga hipa - te tïmatanga ämua,
That is where we all are - tahi rerekë.
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