EIGHTH VIEW OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS
Easter Island, 1500 AD
The five stars tremble through the branches
of the last tree on this island. At dawn,
my loyal axe will cut it down to raise
the final moai of my ancestors
and the long gone dead will smile.
But there will be no wood for platforms
to one day lift me huge and rocky
like the eyes that talk to the sky,
my cold stone back to the living sea,
my painted eyes scorching the bare earth.
I tremble, too, but the ancestors call my axe.
Published in The Blue Nib
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