Khamilla

I stand by his grave, where praise be, I hope to be saved, my eyes like thunder, wine dark like the sea, hate makes me shudder, from the blue Nave, cooped to the lee, he had nothing left, there is a cluster, of Poplar trees, they neither wave nor linger, my voice starts to break, it's late for the season, geese fly over and away, his face is the wonder, happy laughing sweet, that I tore asunder, it's quiet in this place, my place of need, please grant a space, keep it open for me.