I am not accustomed
to the sea.
I look towards it
and breathe its salt,
the wild wind streaming
about my body.
The sea spits out –
a single chappal escaping
from some closely guarded mystery,
plastic bottles,
crumpled paper.
A white garland
speaks to my feet
in the sea’s language,
about death.
The ships are ready to journey
plunging through the sea
eager to conquer the sky
fallen into its deep blue water.
You gather amidst the waves
to help me embark.
But ask me first, whether
I am ready to set sail at all.