Easter Island, 1500 AD
The five stars tremble through the branches

of the last tree on this island. At dawn,

my loyal axe will cut it down to raise

the final moai of my ancestors

and the long gone dead will smile.

But there will be no wood for platforms

to one day lift me huge and rocky

like the eyes that talk to the sky,

my cold stone back to the living sea,

my painted eyes scorching the bare earth.

I tremble, too, but the ancestors call my axe.