Carry me down to the sea,
past the old sycamore tree
My languid body has grown too weak
help me find the bones I seek

Set me into the acrid bath-
I yearn for its resplendent wrath
Weeping spirits start to appear
chanting songs I cannot hear

Bloodless faces shaped like bowls-
slits for eyes, and void of souls
Salty water fills my lungs
and I can read their spirit tongues

I rise from the serenity,
and claim a new identity
Gaze at my poignant reflection-
green slit-eyes and gray complexion

I join my brother and sister souls,
slits for eyes and faces like bowls