Our protest arranges an assignation with death.
In open space, the agora, we can't catch our breath.
So much to and fro, loss and gain, our craft heaves
On the cusp of sinking, swallowed by soaked leaves.
Eyes shine forged beams above high heather.
Hand in hand, like burrs fixed, we're one feather
Which buoys up to embrace bright Sun
And swiftly pass what pulses outrun.