Wednesday, April 11, 2007


The wooden corpse of a tree
lies in the shifting sand
its branches reach for the sea
its roots still yearn for the land.

Oh, to be rooted in earth,
oh, to drift with the tide.
Far from the land of my birth
the lonely beach where I died.

Waves whisper sweet consolation
salt water drips from my hand.
A journey with no destination
begins when I take leave of land.

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