Easter Island

Long we stand.
Long we have stood
upon this treeless island.

Zen immortal,
made of stone.
Carved by men we long outlived.
Young as granite,
living as it,
living in it.

Now our sunken pits as eyes
see the passing ships
and rains,
and winters sun bow down and rise.

Behold our face.
The solid shadow of our race.
A lonely and unworshipped god,
to us now prays.

"Oh idol thine,
rekindle interest in my line
from bygone days."

Not yet.
Just wait.
Not too late.
Not just yet.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.