Her eyes were the darkest brown, deeper than the tattos engraved on her skin,
her voice raw as she screamed with her people at the genocide,
and the crystal skinned men shot back.
Blood flew from her wounds,
dying her plain tapa red,
red from her wounds,
red that she should be shedding others of,
instead of being shed of it herself
The great warriors fought,
the crystal skinned men yelled back,
'mud skin'
She hears,
'treaty breakers'
Her whakapapa is engraved within her heart
and it is the only hope within this,
creature.
The ropes are digging in,
the man with the kowhai hair had tied her,
the man who she saw at the treaty,
used shaky words to lie to him about what she want to scream.
In this structure,
she found comfort in the aboriginal boy,
he doesn't speak a word of her people,
and she his,
but it is enough.
She is told,
'you are a colony'
All she hears,
'you are a strong wahine'
The years flow by her,
and she never leaves the house.
In a war,
she crouches with the aboriginal boy,
whose now a man,
whisper comforts in their languages
but never the one forced onto them.
She feels judged,
the men look at her arms, her chin and lips
speak words that mean to her less
than what they should
The darkness embraces her,
she marches with her people to the marae,
it is a hikoi,
they will not stop until they have it back,
the land of their ancestors,
the story of their history,
stolen from their hands by the crystal men,
who say their hearts are of charcoal.
The heart of her fallen tribe
beats in her still,
the seven sister stars,
Matariki,
smile down at her,
and she finds herself reliving her life,
from her father taching her to lead,
to screaming in anguish as the last of her people fall.