On an island dressing
for a thousand more,
on a beach at low tide
walking the shore,
feeling like Crusoe
or the pen of Defoe
the thoughts come and go
like the days,
and they're speaking German
which
I don't understand
I want my Mother not the
Fatherland.
What love,
A pearl from some Eastern eye
Delhi or maybe Mumbai
like a painting by
Modigliani
she haunts me.
The islands slip into the bays
the days follow on behind.
She's still there on the canvas
with those eyes that shadow
and I become a shadow
too.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 3:32 PM UTC
On an island dressing
for a thousand more,
on a beach at low tide
walking the shore,
feeling like Crusoe
or the pen of Defoe
the thoughts come and go
like the days,
and they're speaking German
which
I don't understand
I want my Mother not the
Fatherland.
What love,
A pearl from some Eastern eye
Delhi or maybe Mumbai
like a painting by
Modigliani
she haunts me.
The islands slip into the bays
the days follow on behind.
She's still there on the canvas
with those eyes that shadow
and I become a shadow
too.
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