White Wine

From the sun that rips raw skin from my back

to the glittering eyes which little children lack,

I cry for sandy days on

and weep for that over which my parents fawn.

Little snake which bites my toes

and makes me think of what I owe,

tell me why the world is quiet and still

and why it thinks I should not be fulfilled.

From the sun that rips raw skin from my back,

to the glittering eyes which little children lack,

give me solace from my loss

and bury in the sand my Albatross.