Cut into an arched silver line
Horizon is rising
Sifting currency on the beach
With hand made of sieves

I see the seafoam rising up
From way down

Are you the messenger
And is this home?

There's a crane that has fallen down
Where the salt marsh is growing
No more pension for mother
Or my stepdad

I see the seafoam rising up
And changing its form:

Are you the messenger
And is this home?