Wessel Reijers

Trickle, trickle.

Bound on planks of rotten wood

The sails surge in the wind

Kept down, by the rain

Trickle, trickle.

In a sea of ships waves arise

Water, more of it above than below

Pouring, while pulling

Trickle, trickle.

The tiny ship looks up, no sky

Sulfate, ashes, and steam

Of progress, it seems

Trickle, trickle.

While the crowd grows dense

And water scarce

Cracking wood and threads – entangle

Trickle, trickle.

Dancing with death, zeros and ones

The sails, they sigh

Ahead, one last time.

Trickle. Trickle.

Verder Bericht

© 2024 Wessel Reijers

Thema door Anders Norén