The moment I was clothed in sheep-wool
And put out to bah with crowded language,
I strayed, I strayed
I dug the graves the vultures had ploughed
And made a song to amuse
The charade called joker-faced destiny

Marx said you are too good
In markets to run, all the stable boy parades
We ran, we ran
Inspecting the pulps found in the tomato cans
So exotic and bloody, if that be true
We thought we had seen the very last of you.

It is a love letter to a reluctant lover
I pray, I pray
Listening through the metallic walls
Into absence
Of history, time and space.
The mangrove older and taller than us all, 
Has never and will never say.