There is a song the fisherwomen sing
They are so strong they never skip a beat
They spin the metaphor of misty bones
Exiled in parting dawn
They row your boats in a battle
That is not cheap
While the drums keep sounding
In the deep
And the song sings its tune
Of silver scales reflected by the moon
They cast their nets and they found the princess
The merchant had buried in the chest
Breathing her sleepy names in memory erased
And your trip' s but a jump in the sea of disguise
So cruel at times so wise
Hark to the women' s song
They stand their slippery ground
And make the wheel turn round
What monster was revealed
Entangled in the nets
What fish to feed you with
Round turns the wheel
But where's the real
There is no deal
There is a dance entranced in music score
And you are tossed and rocked in waves galore
But diamonds are shining in the scales
Mind you hear them because they sing your tale
YOU ARE READING
trips
Poetrytalking about trips don't trip don't move don't groove sitting in street poverty such cross nailing you down in the tomb of lost paradise eating at your brain your eyes your infinite holes piercing the guts of well-fed bourgeoisie never gave you...
