c.a. davis

// filmmaker | editor | storyteller \\

the Magic Papaya

My father once told me a story,

When I was a small boy,

Of a papaya that saved lives

And lead the Samoans to great joy.

 

A magical fruit,

It never fully ripened,

And after each feast

It regained its full stipend.

 

One fruit they did have,

These Samoans who rowed without end,

Until finally they arrived

On shores that were ashen'd.

 

My father would tell me

This brave story of old

During cold winter nights

When the heat was turned low.

 

And we too kept a fruit,

I do like to think,

That kept us afloat

When we all thought we'd sink.

 

This fruit has no name,

No color nor taste,

It has no disguise

To fool the famished or cause haste.

 

No; it is a common thing,

One that requires just a little light,

An occasional sprinkling,
 

And a whole lot of might.