sitting upon an old, stone ghat
I felt the flow of what was not
coracles once spun down this stream
like dervishes in a wistful dream

now the dream was cold and lonely
sing songs of the one and only
it doesn’t change a single thing
be that one a drone or a king

I’d followed the drums down into a trance
time was vacant from my every glance

and I’d lost track of which world I was riding