I can walk backwards and never trip
where the cement cracks and parts
(only ants brave that journey)
They carry their dead on their backs
and hope for crumbs
(have I asked for too much)
iI can bend like an orphan’s truth
when the river turns away
(they say that there’s gold at the bottom),
but they say that there’s gold in the willow above.
When the sun goes down it shivers they say
(trembling as if it were touched).