Stick these words in your hair
And take them to Polin and Manuai
my sons:
the ripe fruit falls and returns
5 to the trunk – its mother.
But my sons, forgetful of me,
are like fruit borne by birds.
I see the sons of other women
returning. What is in their minds?
10 Let them keep the price of their labour
but their eyes are mine.
I have little breath left
to wait for them.
I am returning to childhood.
15 My stomach goes to my back
my hands are like broom sticks,
my legs can fit in the sand crab’s hole.
I am dry like a carved image
only my head is God’s.
20 Already I sway like a dry falling leaf
I see with my hands –
oh tell Polin and Manuai to hurry
and come to my death feast.