History’s always a charting through oceans of blood,
No harbor for ships, no sailors with homeland or mud,
Yet one who can steer may weather the storm and the flood—
In this world that balances on the tip of a needle.
Wincing, he’ll rinse his palms, torn raw, in rum,
And before them the horizon unfolds, deep and dumb,
And before them the waves roll in, colossal, and crimson, and numb…
…And human beings were those who are beneath…
2025.07.09