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Beads
I string the beads, the
red-red beads
the things that I revere
the joys from which my dry soul feeds
the best of life is captured here
let’s string the beads my dear
I count the beads, the red-red beads
modest things at most
the smell of coffee from darkest seeds
a book, a fire, a sunset coast
behold, for maths, a special toast
I crush the beads, the red-red beads
and mix it with a tear
fondest memories of the seeds
their blood is gathered here
then born from it, came you my dear
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