LEGENDS OF THE PĀKEHĀ

To the great serene Emperors of the North,
your governor in the Antipodes
bids you hail
for this is what you must understand,
you who are native in your own dominions
where the down has long settled in the conqueror’s cushions.

Here every day is Saturnalia.

Always in the south
we live with the stigma, O divine Emperors,
of our original sin.
Always there is the indigenous
as once we were elsewhere
until the War in Heaven
and the angels fell down the rabbit hole.

Always there is the native
standing on the shore
like trees in a painting,
watching the horizon
where the future apocalypse develops
slowly like a Polaroid,
unfolding its petals,
blossoming into a great white
delicate origami bird.

That was our ship O Princes.
Always the native –
even in Eden, before at Eve’s bequest
Adam invented genocide as dowry.
Enclosed, your tribute.

Ave atque vale.

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