Before the sun, the mountain — the foundation, waiting, the same being under every island’s name.

The spiral turns without me asking, gafa curling back to where it started, never a ladder, always a return.

Fetū fade but do not leave. Manulele rides the wind above me, farther out than I will ever go, and still she finds her way back.
Land opens like a palm frond. The sea answers in swells, in arcs bent toward a shore not yet in sight.

Shark’s teeth at the reef — mana at the edge of things. Behind me, tapa dries in lines, remembering the hands that beat it.
The wind turns. Someone else’s fire reaches mine.

Where paths cross, there is a space — not empty. Vā. Everything we’ve ever given each other, kept there.
By evening, the mat beneath me was woven by hands I share blood with. This was never myth.
Mountain to sea. One people. Many islands. Still one.