Look, mother, out on the wavering water
that boat of pilgrims failing, thirst.
First to the shore they, the grey land rising
severely over dour hills and follow,
the laden land sinking, runs toward
the hull-drum wood-rot sickness.

First the chieftain pilgrim's sickness:
war paint on, across the water
heaving lonely oars in time, toward
the great rock on the shore, the first
place, where the food is gathered, follow
him to lick the brine, follow him, the tide is rising.

Stand he on the rock, a sign: the rising
sun is set on this. The moon's sickness
vomits up the sea, and stills it. Follow
now the other men, with rotting eyes, across the water,
swimming fast to claim their thirst.
It is a long brook which they all row toward.

People gather. Now the chieftain points toward
the un-rowed trees. Salt is rising
in the roots: unquenched, undying thirst.
The trees must throw this hoary sickness,
must undo the bane of water.
Then the men the chieftain follow.

Walk they high into the forest, fallow
ground that knows no till. Toward
the gnarled eldest tree, that water
left and made a husk, and rising
branch on branch, the sickness,
sickness of the tree revealed: Thirst

that made the naked Adam bite into the apple core, thirst
that all the grey-faced men that followed
drunk up through the saline ground, and sickness,
sickness in obsession dances, dances toward
the end of rain, the water rising
toward the moon, the blood-sea water

drenched in pain, and love of water
guides the blade, that cuts into the tree in thirst
to draw out words, a call, a sign to rise.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Chronos, in the year 419 AF.