I met a woman once, on a long and dusty road.
On her back she wore a sack, filled with heavy load.
My gaze alarmed her, she cried out “Halt!
You will pay my toll, with blood or salt.”
She carried a knife, in her one working hand,
but my interest was piqued, for about this land
was salt aplenty. The ground and dirt were piles;
mountains of salt amongst saltwater isles.
“What need have you of salt?” Said I, trying to be fast.
“Leave with a debt,” she said, “And this day shall be your last.
I ask of every traveller, give me salt or blood.
Abundance here is abstract, since the final flood.”
And so I leaned down, from the dusty track
I took a pinch of salt, her knife arm slack.
“Here, some salt.” I said, offering my hand.
A tiny pinch of all there is, making up this land.
She took her payment, and smiled at me
“Thank you, good day, and now you’re free.”
I walked along that dusty track,
and never faltered, never looked back.