by Joyce, Grade 11
“And those are uncouth birds,”
said the water, “bred by ashes of
dead souls,
ripping apart the embers of the black barges
that sailed through the old sea
(vast and empty blue sea)
carrying rats and treasures raised by the swells,
guided by sirens, sang all night long requiems and
verses of blind prophets…”
And whose soul we soothe?
Waiting for some footsteps on the wooden deck that the
night wind slovenly bestows,
the drumming of waves rises to meet the moon
(Come come back to the shadows)
We sleep in little compartments,
shower at nine, dinner at eight, and say
——good morning, good evening, hope you have a nice dream
blatant, barren, laughing blankly,
strike suddenly by nostalgia that rips asunder
flesh and mind; mind of seers, cannot speak nor see——
and such are uncouth birds,
bred by ashes of dead souls,
loitering between the heat above and the cold below
(Come come back to the shadows the refrain the inextricable)
stranded, squanderers, surrenders
softly as the flutter and mutter of feathers and melted wax
sink,
——O poor night, good night, good night, good day.