by Nick Gisburne
She threads the tiny seashells, one by one
A sacred task, a worthy toil of time
And when she reaches out and there are none
She breathes a song, a rhythmic rush of rhyme
New treasures on the beaches are revealed
She bends to fill her basket, shell by shell
They offer no resistance; all must yield
And always, in the heart, her sorrows swell
For every shell she threads, a life was sold
Transported from the shores on which she stands
She promises their story will be told
With tiny seashells, gathered by her hands
She hears them, weeping, calling from the waves
And threads the shells, as once were chained the slaves
