Modern Romanticism

Let us start ourselves on a path

Past the remembrances only seeped in the darkness.

Dipped in the blackness of crudest oil

That had polluted a current, so far back.

I will love

With many places to carve my name,

For homes, and the shelters I build

With hands made of iron.

From spot to spot,

We move

Across desolate canyons and terrains embedded in murk.

Here are wallows that submerge themselves,

Here are springs that raise themselves,

And here is a nest for us to rest.

In my ocean,

In the many joyous tears I have shed,

With success to every word.

Hold my hand in this ocean,

Where crossing it merely requires the steps

To be afloat.