My footsteps are
Etched in sand, then buried
Underneath water.
Seagulls fall just
Low enough to haunt.
But my shadow,
our bodies
Are children dancing
With the falling sun.
The flesh must die
So that I may live
The flesh must die
So that I can breathe
Even if my breath
Is frail, molten pipe.
My voice is the quell
Buried beneath coal
If I fail
To give the hungry man
A piece of bread, and
If I fail
To hear the song you’ve given
In dedication, that voice
Will cut the dull edge that is
my will.