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,