You wonder why nobody talks anymore about possession, Why this deathly silence on an unacknowledged obsession, About this edifice painstakingly built, built by brick, Ever confident that just another would do the trick. When you spend every day laying the
Man has always been fascinated by the mysteries of the sea, Maybe because there isn’t an inch of land that’s left free, So he sets about elaborately courting the ocean, Alas, if only to his own follies he paid such
You are struck by one, and then another, blow, Perhaps a result of lettings things to go slow, In retort, in return, a harder punch you try to throw, Feeling it sailing across, you begin to get back the flow.
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