Forty Two Lost Seagulls
I cud coffee beans bitter,
atop the cutter steersman,
pale dusk, sets to skitter,
our trip to far began.
Our engines thrum sadden,
Africa's coastal to alargo,
round is the moon on Aden,
upon coffee sacks of cargo.
A dreadful equilateral link,
that persecutes your time,
when ghostly shadows sink,
like monsters in odd rhyme.
Upon the deck are dancing,
the wraiths of three fools,
with broken smiles gunning,
galleys of medieval ghouls;
and forty two lost seagulls,
astray from Bacau's shore,
change odd flights to regal,
upon our non caressed chore.
Four of lost sunken friends,
singing hoarse calls blither,
they gallivant from depths,
upon a frail reality dither.
The Madonna beside my berth
reminds me of your prayer,
twas next to our home hearth,
closer to my route of never.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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