Sing to me softly Ra Qiqi, a lullaby lightness,
not the guttural of men. Your wings tremble
amidst silver-leafed saplings, despite obscenities below.
Beware of loggers' teeth ripping the forest apart,
severing the canopy. You panic and zigzag away,
your habitat stricken, the rape explicit.
Here was a moment to lament, your song ignored,
Once, you signalled a season, timely and right,
your wing flashed, sacred white-eye.
Your song flutters a message, one ironwood tree,
opening the canopy once in a decade
to build the Big House for the chief.
Your full-throated cry dissolves to a lament
for the stolen land, the broken forests.
Isa oilei, isa oilei.