When You Are Washed
Moons talk,
Tarts believe in pride,
But all falls; starts the lonely walk!
All to test the banks' tide.
When you're washed, yet, unstill
Like pride of Barbados,
Rippled by feet of unending March,
Hope lingers for its shoot, off the soil.
The weed today, a flower, in moons time,
The abandoned konga, the beats-
Of a runaway-mad child
To the wise, anger heals.........
When you're washed!
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