John Puhiatau Pule
goodbye to you who does not know my hands
goodbye to you who thought I was disgusting
goodbye to the small amount of water that decorated my legs
my ear slapped shut by lightning so not to hear you leaving
I, who went inside a dream to touch the home of my birth,
I don’t know who moved my whenua. That is life.
Whoever moves who waits, who goes and who does stay.
I thought you would come back, but you went forever.
One bird flew from my sadness and tragedy.
My mother who gave birth to me found it difficult
to talk and show the road where the god lives
and sleeps inside a man long ago dead.
And the bird arrived from the other side of the world
its flight so tiring the sun was scared it would be eaten,
the bird fell to my feet and I carried it to the sea
and cut open its stomach full of stones.
The stones are now my eyes,
white like my mother’s hair,
with the personality of the limestone road
I’m here, all the doors must open.
When she died I did not stay for the tangi.
I waved a taxi down. I kept staring at the id photo of the driver.
It read: expires 2003.
I want to see Wings of Desire again.
That’s the greatest metaphor for desire.
I am in love with that tree, that rose,
Who is in love with me?