Our identities,
woven into the fibre
of this lovely womb
hangs my beautiful country,
Papua New Guinea’s life.
Telling the story
of birth pangs and growing up
our thirsty souls cry
to find answers in the race
choked with information age.
God of this nation,
unrighteousness and doubts gnaw,
as the bilum hungs,
with our precious souls treasured,
is exposed to rats and thieves.
Pour your anointing
oil, unto the dormant seeds
of your words to grow
so the flowers shall bloom in this
land of paradise again.
Bilum, art, woven, nature, tanka, verse,
Poetry, micro poetry,
Joan's flower poem 