Six more voices

The sea was a crossing to caress your feet,
the kindest of borders placed as a barrier.

It’s the sails’ turn now, not ours, bags
offloaded from shoulders, the sea a relief.

Our legs no longer burdened with climbing,
for walkers like us, the sea is a cart.

The sea pushes every which way, one day the east,
the next it seeks north, a dash of milk on waves

The sea is a windmill, the sailors are fierce
children embittered, from an orphanage.

The sea is no river that knows its course, but rough water,
fathomed by an unleashed precipitous abyss.