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Dinestrup Strand

Your gods in my hands
totems of salt and the end

your keen eye behind my lens
jealous of my women but never of my men

the wind lingers by the foredune at Dinestrup Strand
a sheltered little patch of sand

your boiling blood, your seeking heart
your brave lungs, your patient guard

my freediving muse
up for a breath
down for a glance
hell, what a dance

I stand by your can't-leave-behinds
you stand by my can't-press-forwards

a still war that will never be won
but don't say it hasn't been fair

give me your crabs
I'll pass them along.