Something I cannot say creates me from within. So must the child grow who does not know of sin; Hunched over for so long, the angel now will stand Head dripping from the water and display What things he found down buried in the sand. And you will eat the fish so long foretold By gossips on the shoreline of the end. Then you will be what you can’t understand; The steeds of angels feed out of your hand. And the white stones that he found buried in the sand Will be for gifts to all those children who have fished So many years upon the pink sands of the end.