Swells surging forwards,
eroding the land.
A test of your patience,
a test of your hands.

The presence of angels
in a pall of thick smoke.
On this table spill memories,
deceptions, & jokes.

Down on this beach,
from the Irish Sea,
the Lusitanian
ghosts are freed.

Memories come back to you--
faces on walls.
The faces of friends of mine
confide to us all.

Visions of yesterday
go back through the years--
back to creation--
with the exception of fear.

Down on this beach,
from the cold North Sea,
the ghosts of Yetland
sing out to me.

Down on this beach,
from the Baltic Sea,
we will dance on islands
like we are diseased.

Down on the sand will come a thought that will mark
a place in your conscience,
a scratch in your heart.
Hope here is random,
survival is sure.
Your trascendence expected,
so be reassured.

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