The past bleeds the present
Into seashells;
Monocarpic moments breeding
Blue flowers of solitude.
Soyons. Soyons. Soyons.
Between the howling nymph that echoes in the cavern
And the immortal gasp of the whirling water
I will drown my senses.
The small hand plucked the petals off my tongue.
Soyons!
The present drinks the past
From my hands.
My quiet hands on the sand beneath the water.
