Yaya

What separates us from our best, does a sail make us shrill, our flight to change address, a raging thirst to assess, a map, some salt,let us kill, at the sight of your caress, any more to your requests, than nights battered or still, to fix our weathered compass, locate the inventive West, have us eat our fill, hope we pass the test, shape our days at sea or rest, face each wave or rill, struggle against each duress, send us back if we egress, be devoured by men or kids, by flame or water to confess, he who tempers will.