As time began to sail across the distance
between the legitimacy of sea-faring tales
and their land-woven origins,
our fingertips became acquinted in the same fluid lucidity
that the soles under our feet interpreted into syncopated steps

Our words melliflously met above the undertones of
cityscape circuit-boards,
embellishing the space between the notes
of our independence
and the harmonies
of our togetherness


She is neither the sea nor the wind, for both are masters of their own trade;
indifferent to the collisions of an unmapped expedition

She is,
as is freedom,
the sail under which the destinations of her vessel
rely solely on the unpredictability
of the collision itself

Too many gave deeply thought,
  Too many have come and gone,
Too many in dreams truly sought,
  For you to have it lost or won.

Too many climb-up their dreams light
  If only too fast they're washed ashore--
Or left out to be 'acquinted with the
          night,'
With no second chance, beaten to the
          core.

And too many have put their hearts with
         trust
  In brute, brute another's heart,
In the end with no love but driven to
        dust--
  Having foregone any chance to restart.

For too many fail of us to give another
  Try, too readily to treat with hate
The lover with whom they felt together:
  For too many of us lose lest we cannot
         await.

                            -by Hakim H. Kassim.