The Coin

Shining in the light, blinding,
The butterfly mask,
The mischievous tribal warrior,
Small but mighty,
Stirring up mischief again,

He sticks out his tongue,
The little troublemaker,
The protector,
Of the New Zealand forests,
Guarding against their enemy,

The wolves lean and mean,
Full of hatred, wanting,
To claim the forest for their own,
Yet as the guardian fights them,
A tangy metallic smell fills the air,

Alas the warrior protects no more,
Trapped in the coin forevermore.