An Ocean without Sails
Say the nomads, who should know
Make no plans today, sometimes
No one knows the way to go
And in the guts there are no signs
A long and distant line of sight
No more than steppe as flat as pain,
Cloud by day or flame by night
Will not appear, return again
Yet the foolish stop, get down
And with their knives they disembowel
Ponies kicking on the ground
To search the omens of their travel
Do not kill the beasts you ride,
Bewildering, there are no trails,
The grass is taller than your eyes
Beneath an ocean without sails
Pavel
June 21, 2011