Arrival with a Carryon

Hale.

It is our home

Home that we laid eyes first, mercy cried

at our arms outstretched, unwavering love of our Creator, master of all Creatures ts sere His glory and majesty.

The red clay dug from Mauna Kea, where she first tore open the sea to breath; red clay molded into bodies.

Each separate, beautiful, a mothers cry of her unbridled love cantered a cadence men at the harbor follow. Time intersected fate, fate we share as one people. Lono in his whispers by dew, we nurtured by his gifts; splendor in abode, nene shriek and cry our joys with their wing tips.

For our births caused decay.

She bled for our cries, our weakened prides worn heavy.

It was no sooner that we grew ill of our birthright- the outline the very same. A personal predetermined destiny set outright for us all to carry, for Kanē too Can fear the hand who annexed our body. Even brought up to kiss his face we all resented.

Fled.

Fought.

Fearfully laid in.

It was all we could do, sand rushed to run wounds clogged in tar, a sticky worn garment meant to be shouted from Mauna Kea that this was ours. Engraved, koa wood cut to represent our fathers and our fathers’ fathers. So we could know them by name, know their journey and trials passed from Ku who beat them mercilessly into the living world.

These rags were ours, passed along ages to new. Tutu Wahine sewn to adorn Kupuna Kane. He gave it to us, moʻopuna.

This what’s what was ours.

Ours and ours alone- a sickening swollen wound we cherished blindly, how we spoke against oppressors who only wished to aid our struggle. We like animals tore against their legs, ripped out their hearts shriveled in what we were swollen full.

To clean our undesirable ripped up shreds of pride bleeding from our chests, our hearts.

We all left at our most desperate; fragmented memories cut at skin.

Our bodies ripped from her womb, across seafare to Determination: an era for desires unimaginative, a hidden paradise,

Garden of Eden sheathed from our eyes, yet cut deep in footprint.

The white clay stolen from such heavens sculpted our minds for thought, born of independence and free-will, Kane gave us, his children, this in which he only sought for thanksgiving after, praises sung to the most high that we garner his lands as ours, his people become our own.

We hold the ʻahu ʻula and mahiole, set in stone, unshakable destiny laid at our feet, adorned to neck and crown. Meant to lead everyone to Lua-o-Milu, even when we are barred. Those are our kamaʻāina: children of this land. Kane beseeched them to us, sheep to be Shepard until they could grow on their own.

In our retaliation: destiny is set in stone.

As once we left, we must return.

Now skins of Kīlauela adorn our faces, backs, and hips.

Manō, mohu, and mana.

Lush blessings:

full bellied, 

Ōpūnui.