On the parliamentary floor,

the young wahine stands,

and with unshaking hands

parts the violent seas that swell

to drown our people,

to turn back the rising tides

that ferry our mana to shore.
A mana we have always known,

carried within us,

that they fear but cannot see,

that is:

star-scattered,

soil-sewn,

wind-woven,

wave-wrought,

resting in the deepest roots

and moving, waiting,

in the molten fire

that stirs, silent,

beneath their feet. 
The young wahine speaks;

no – summons,

her fiercest war cry.

Her voice becomes the taiaha,

cutting

swiftly

through the latest transgression—

but certainly not the last. 
A wayfinder leading the waka

through her righteous call

and the answering boom

of resounding voices,

young and old,

from land and toward it,

affirming as one,

pushing us all ashore.