I will tell you that I love you
when the sun comes out at night.
Or when it’s break of dawn
but the sun forgets to rise.
Come thirtieth February,
you shall be my valentine.
I will be all yours
and I, too, shall call you mine.
My waist beads will jingle for you
on the thirty-first of June.
But if you cannot wait,
we could meet tonight at noon
when I will show you the kind of love
the sun shows the moon.
You just bring your flute,
and I will dance to your tune.
When trees get tired of standing and
decide to take their leave,
you will wrap me in your arms
Like moimoi leaves;
you will climb this orange tree
and take hold of its fruit,
our legs and hearts intertwined
until we squeeze out its juice.
The woman of your dreams
The fork for your soup,