During the day they shout
through a secret language:
they bleat and squeal through four
wheels, announcing intentions,
ripping metal from metal
when impatient or careless.
Even when still, they still talk
into their own hands and ears,
whispering secrets to themselves--
what they see, what they hear.
But when the sun turns pink
and hangs below their houses,
then they go, hand-in-hand, down
to the waters. There they eat,
huddle close, and softly murmur
their evening prayers, and their eyes
drift, like waves, from their children
to their neighbors. Some, deep
within the sea of their thoughts,
let their worries, like the waves,
softly lap against the rocks.
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