The Water In Boat

Understanding the poverty 
of the earth, the pain, 
of the primal tribe, 
invoking the god of sky. 

In my victory, I was stabbed. 
I will go and meet the sea. 

You are there, O hunger 
of home and peace, mute 
as a stone, baked in 
sun, waiting for the ripples. 

I will burry the blackberries 
in dreams, the lips will 
seek the silence of a stroke, 
when moon walks in unannounced.