What is it to breathe the same air
As those who take flight
In full daylight
Up towards the sun
To melt and reform
To whatever they choose
And all that they lose
Is their bindings?

What is it like
To go off a side
To roll in the tide
To cook in the sun
To go down below
Where certainly gold
Is buried?

Where do these whispers
Creep through the sound
Of the man who fell down
Of the man who drowned
Of the gold never found
And the soul now unbound?

I'm hard of hearing.