We watch the waters go past
Distilled by waves
And dance to an unknown song
From the constellations-
Who knows which spectator will dance last
on the fresh shore,
Work boots strapped to sore feet?
For I who was a witness to holiness,
What will I do than to pour out rivers?
As we sail to a new location,
With feet sucked sore by boots.
26/Dec/2004
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem