The sun flits behind dormant clouds
it is nervous today

The waves will crash onto the beach
this is my theatre

My mother holds me
we have discussed nothing

I will confess to the fish
and sail on their fins

Seas will not taste of salt
but of honey

We will not bury the dead
they continue to fight

Only the living will be buried
they will capture the underworld

I will learn miniature languages
and settle hysterical birds

All days are now compressed
by the sand blown paths

these lines need not be read in the order noted