Tick, tock, time. . .frame of mind has been translucent, see through what can’t be seen. . . is it obscene to have big dreams. . .the dreams we can rarely fathom to bring the bright lights into our life but allow them to remain dim. . .some say we can’t be quiet, we can’t be loud, we can’t resist but we can be proud. . .The heritage overflowing with creativity a slow pound of taro to soften a hard batch of root to bring out the truth. . .We are unique creatures. . . they wonder where we came from, I wonder where they came from. . .I wonder if my wandering ever helps me find the answer to their existence. . .a fine line has been drawn like the yellow caution tape outlining the body of death, a death of a people. . .a yearning for exploring where we belong. The chants of generations the beginning. . .the Kumulipo gives us the lining of beauty found in our voices. . .Striking verses from the 18th century. . .I know where we came from. Have you heard the struggling in our laments to this country. . .The war cries because the war provided an ally that only came to override the land we call paradise. My cry is louder than the volcanoes eruption, the embrace of the lava flow grazing down to destroy everything in it’s path. . .the Aftermath of time. . .Tick, Tock this time. . .my words will never allow you to forget me, not just me, but the people I am made of  within me.