Messenger

Cut into an arched silver line,

horizon is rising.

Sifting currency on the beach,

with hands made of sieves

I see the seafoam rising up,

from way down.

Are you the Messenger,

And is this home?

There's a crane that has fallen down

where the salt marsh is growing

No more pension for mother

or my stepdad.

I see the sea foam rising up,

and changing its form

Are you the Messenger,

And is this home?

Are you the Messenger,

And is this home?