Her cries burrowed the canal,
dampening sadness in the hollow,
whispering suffering to the bare,
to the roots that came.
Quenched by cancer,
375 miles off the coast,
where sete used to be,
where the escape triggered whispers,
whispers that erupted.
Sighs at the grove,
called the iIha do Fogo,
mimicking tales from the volcano,
the frown of her chaos,
the deep burn on her lips.
The cancer fused the Facet,
the joint that formed the bend,
confusing the wrath of loss with misery,
tending the throbbing of iIha do Fogo,
to the roots,
the roots he let be,
the roots he set free.
