|
Lying on our backs, |
|
This is your parents' bed, |
|
A good place to be laid |
|
'Cos it's so neatly made. |
|
Staring at the ceiling, |
|
Vein to vein the lines look the same |
|
As the ones that you're seeing, |
|
And then you start speaking: |
|
Tracing your father's footsteps |
|
In your mother's shoes, |
|
Going up and over |
|
And across your latin roots. |
|
Point points back to its origin, |
|
Across the world cogs are clogged with the sand, |
|
Here the air breathes freely |
|
And our tongues work loosely, |
|
Border approaches border, |
|
You're using your hands and smearing your r's. |
|
I'm looking over my shoulder, |
|
Strained resistance to scour the door for |
|
Your father's footsteps or your mother's shoes, |
|
Coming up and over, |
|
Cut across your latin roots. |
|
It's time to meet you makers |
