See how the carved ships sail,
not in legions, but alone-
their lacquered bows shining,
their scarves full-blown.

Note how they primp and pose,
as the white waves whisper
and the air goes frail.

'The Sea is a lady
who loves to sing,
and all of her songs
have sail'.

Fling with your arm a pale,
thin shell, the color of a bone.
Sing with your heart
to soothe all spite,
in your voice
so sand-pebble light.

'The Sea is a lady
who loves to sing,
and all of her songs
have sail'.

We are a branch (a strain) of lost souls.
a wandering off-shoot of Man.
A blood line.

A vagabond gene pool
of mixed breeds.
A gypsy train.
A caravan.

We rest in park lands.
Recreational areas.
  Caves.
You don't see us.

You don't hear us.

But we're there.