Within me, thrusting endlessly
Against the belly that betrayed me—
Swollen now like Wharewera Hill—
There's a little thing that would see
If you are his father still.
Let the wind blow, let the river flow,
Am I cloud or water-weed, to go where they go?
You were a God and I but a child,
Now having used me, you cast me aside,
This little thing I gave, you deride,
Am I worthless, thus to be denied?
O the misery of the two-wived beast,
For me, a famine, for him, a feast;
And I, the host, was least
While he, the guest, complained the most.
But when you turned from me
I burned the more fiercely—
O Mare, do not tease me—
This is your canoe, you set it on the sea;
I long to go to you, and yet
There are better men who seek my bed.
I will be more careful who comes in your stead,
Ears flap, but nothing will be said.