And the dream of the shell is the pearl!

I could have been a pauper
       instead I was a king

the echo of the sea
was the only music I listened to

that year as the boats
sailed to destinations they would not take me to

turbulence moved in the air
       but what its cause was I could not say

(the self, you understand,
       is not privy to everything)

no more than I could say
       what was beautiful and what was not

seeking by hints and omissions
       to understand and latch onto

the echo of the sea
       in a shell, in my ear,

       for hints of knowledge

the self was composed of
       and susceptible to

dreaming of the shell
       dreaming the pearl

that interlude
       between the waves

as I watched the waves
       and looked for a boatman

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