Whakamomori
Children die here,
and the old bury
the young. Each day
I wake in the black
before morning to walk
from dark to dark.
My heart, a porous sponge,
a hautai in frigid water,
wrung out as dust.
Children die here,
and the old bury
the young. Each day
I wake in the black
before morning to walk
from dark to dark.
My heart, a porous sponge,
a hautai in frigid water,
wrung out as dust.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
