Sing to me again about a ship coming in
and let me believe for an instant it's mine:
an origami boat in a children's fleet
let loose on a river in a mountain night.
Each ship bore a candle that we set alight
for one who died by our nation's hands.
And I won't weep for leather boots she never sent,
nor for the man who turns his back on me.
My tears are reserved for the little girl
who thought her boat would really reach the sea.
We all fold dream futures out of paper
and take them out of pockets years later
to shade us from the strange constellations,
to shelter us from the fallout radiation.
On the plain we light them with tiny candles
for the memory of our green growing lands.
