Messenger

Cut into an arch of the land

Horizon is rising

Sifting currency on the beach

With hands made of cysts

I see the sea foam rising up

From way down

Are you the messenger

And is this home?

There's a crane that is falling down

Where the salt marsh is growing

No more pension for mother

Home I stepped out

I see the sea foam rising up

And changing its form

Are you the messenger

And is this home?