There is a dove flying low and about
The hyena picks leaves from its head.

I broke up with the psychotherapist
To break the verse block, to mend pages. 
Death is tasted with the ladle of sleep
With lot of lovemaking, and love is misplaced 
But who laughs at my half hearted love?

Where does your canoe take me, canoe man?
Where does the river take me, waterside moth? 
I am a ladle in the soup of wind, pot of tears, 
Who remembers my labour, journeys canoeman?

The dove alone is flying in our stead 
And hearts seek it from the hyena’s trout