(A Lighted Candle)
Ancient mother of the seas, your womb, a vessel of sacred blood. You make mountains with your wings and stars fall from your mouth. Pierce the night with mystic eyes. Ride the spray of my breath, the sound of my voice to the cusp of yesterday. Hear the sound of my words playing on the wind. Wrap my voice in your hair; awaken the daughter/spirit in your bosom-nest. Sing the song of her primeval name. Ride the breath of my voice. Ride the breath of the wind. Ride the breath of my voice. Ride the breath of the wind. Hear the breath of her voice on the sound of the wind. Voices moving . . . mooooving ... moooooooving. Nyazema breathes; her voice sings re/memberings. Hear the breath of my voice. Hear the breath of my words. Feel the spray of her voice. Feel the spray of her words. Our voices soar on the edge of the wind.