Dream IV

From the horizon
A rising circumference of foam
Is hurtling towards
The sleeping Babylon below

Up here in our mountain niche
We watch the white line grow
Into a churning wall of water
A thousand cubits high

I try to tell you I love you
But my words are crushed beneath the roar
The wind shrieks and whips away my tears
This must be the end of the world

(1983)