As the shells are shifted
by the sands and the sea
so am I, though I’m too busy
to do anything but roll
and wave, as she. Those shells,
now the grooved cup holders of
our dreams, were once full of life
that burst at the seams, Molluscs
that could not repel, the appetite
of the tides and the teeth of it’s strife
beneath the churning , grinding swim
I would don a wet suit and rescue my pearl,
but I have a dry wit, and I am not him.
And to the waves that churn
Looking for fresh fires that burn
To wrestle, to mingle with heat
And return to the shore as a blazing seat
And the ashes duly scattered,
Among the sands. If they mattered
They’ll be redistributed by Spoonbills,
If it meets their demand.
Once the king of Abashar
Was sitting on his own knee
And popped back into his own lap
His new throne, where a pot belly
Used to be.
Once, the man on a fire horse
Came dashing into my stream
I promised that it was the last
Time I would drink,
He promised it was the last time
He would dream.
COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 28th NOVEMBER 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED