Ioanna Gika Messenger
Cut into an arched silver line
Horizon is rising
Sifting currency on the beach
With hand made of sieves
I see the seafoam rising up
From way down
Are you the messenger
And is this home?
There's a crane that has fallen down
Where the salt marsh is growing
No more pension for mother
Or my stepdad
I see the seafoam rising up
And changing its form:
Are you the messenger
And is this home?
