Mermaids sing in the tall leaves of sea-grass.

He who is not here
dreams of pale eyes of northern maids,
golden tresses blown by winds
and cold delicate hands.

Me, I'm traveling african shores -
Seeing hippos lazily basking in mud,
Birds that're noisy and bright -
Lips too chapped for a smile.

That's a mighty song of devotion and death.
Smoke is high:
traipses the wind and the eye.

Mother, help me - this ain't land of mine,
ain't something I asked.
I want love, -
and no tears are healing.