This shell scarlet and black

a shield, fashioned of flotsam and jetsam corroded by the ocean spray 

These feeble wings, origami lace,

spanning countries and transgressing laws

swept to the dunes of shifting decree

The storm did not kill you, and the roaring sea let you pass

but you do not belong to this salt-stung land

Crawling on six spears, no roses bloom for you to lie

But on his hand, your perch of rest and reprise

you draw the last of the sea from your wings

and once again fly