The sea was cold and my blood was hot;
O storm of all that I am not,
Carry my cry to meet the king,
Turn my heart a salty thing --
          Before he finds me sinking.
The moon was old and the night was new;
The stones were soft, and I dreamt of you.
Lord of blood and love and bread,
Lord of all I never said --
          And you will find me sleeping.
The fire was sweet and cooled my blisters;
The dust was discreet and spoke in whispers.
Quiet eyes to strike with wonder;
Blessed birds do crow in thunder --
          And I have found myself weeping.