when the land becomes a mother,
folded by the sky timidly
in an age of loneliness,
her anxious gaze prompts us
to experience unembellished self-forgetfulness
like faultless men at the mercy of the sea
***
and when rises a disregarded room above the waters,
an adrift matter like a memory playing live
stalled in dormant conversations that look like forests
prophetic and reclined, tenderly trivial
yet an exemplar against amnesia,
it beckons us to sink our teeth into our skins to bleed patterns of wit into illumined soils
***
and in an art of a drowning man,
his mother - her girdle bound his neck;
in his eyes is observed a placid sea
thrusting back by a million deposited souls,
soaking to receive immortal honours
among drowsy gods and spoilt demons
