–

These shores you’ve climbed upon are bare,
They have no fruit for you to share, 

–

They have no water, for your parched throat;
Nothing within them to keep you afloat.
They have no life, from which to spare,
All that was, is now just bare.

These shores you’ve climbed upon are old,
Dying –ever slowly– beneath its mould.
There isn’t much use for the waters about,
For the trees that grow within are stout.

–

These shores you’ve climbed upon are bare,
They bear no fruit for you to share.

–

These shores you’ve climbed upon are coarse,
They’ve withered from hatred, and blunt use of force.
They can offer no protection, but promises warmth,
Warmth and the chance to be forgot.

These shores you’ve climbed upon may be,
All these things, not selectively;
And yet, you chose to stay here still,
Then a home of it you may make.
–A home of me, you may make.