Not begging,
for a native dream;
hiding an ocean in the eyes.

The hills were trembling.
I am going to cross the river,
of flames.

I am sitting on the dirt floor,
counting the cowries.

This was my home,
that was my book.

Playing the game of death.

What had you written, O god
with your quivering hand.
I am still following a riderless horse.

Not the least. Any want...
Give back my blank page.