Water flows

Though it does not seem to be,
water, which is,
flows by, through and across
the dark mother.

The poet cannot sleep now.
While she dances, he,
he must join the dance,
even though it may drown him,
will drown him.

A black bee passes by,
from flower to flower,
to let him feel that
that time by human as it
seeps through once in a while
(the time that made him drown),
will always pass too.

The black bee takes him
to the next flower,
which becomes fig above the flow,
that drops into the stream
to float off to a next life
as tree.

In the shade of that fig
the poet lays himself down
to rise and walk away
to another source
in a next dream.
He will not sleep,
cannot sleep when the river takes him
far from his days in time.

I stand up and step back
into time (black bee honeying),
watered up
through the dark mother.
But still,
though I may wander off,
ever I will stay
by these banks
at the centre of the dance.