Poem — Hone Tuwhare



Implicit above all and
as pervasive as the Duende
of Federico Garcia Lorca
is the sense that I must tread
the liveliest and loneliest
of measures on my way
to Rarohenga cocking a snook
at the shadow of my creative
bones, thinning.

And clearly
I should be real gone when
1 reach there – the place where
I am not – except for my end-words
and that surely, is a beginning.

Hone Tuwhare

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