Silent dreams sing here no longer,
Atlantic mists roll back His waves,
Souls which once had made him stronger
Lie sleepless in their watery graves;
And, high above the aqua flow
The seagull glides with haughty breast,
His hungry eye set far below
To flesh that waits in fluid rest.
For, deep beneath the smell of salt,
And deeper than the golden rays
Of sunshine gleam on Neptune’s vault
Recalling thoughts of summer days,
Lay men of war, and sailor ships—
The wooden hulls are rot inside—
They bled in battle ever thick
By cannon wounds so gaping wide.
There’s few that speak, and fewer tell
Of lives before this darkened life.
Its Heaven not, yet worse then Hell,
This graveyard built by nation’s strife.
Here, shadows swirl around the masts,
Their courses halt not by the day;
They are as curtains for the cast
In this paradox of play.
Yet, there is one and one alone
Whom sits beside the gunner’s shafts,
Of a vessel sailed far from home—
Her crew as children in their crafts.
“We are the damned, Poseidon’s slaves,
Held fast within his solid will.”
He weeps to all who come his ways
And all of those who listen still.
“We are the dead, yet once alive,
We laughed and sang, and even loved.
We stood at peace till war arrived—
A mountain that could not be moved—
Yet still, we loved, our women bore
Our children by the hearty throng:
Daughters for joy, our sons for war,
And both to sing ancestral song.
“We worked and gathered in the field
The fruits of our father’s labor;
And we danced till night would yield
To mornings sweetened savor.
Then came—alas—the call to war,
Our Queen enraged the Philip’s fire;
So we did sail ‘gainst Spanish score,
Our ships, though small, filled with ire.
“Though win we did, my ship they sank
While rats—they were the chosen few—
They fled unto the Dover’s bank
And left my ship to sink with crew.
We landed in the murky deep
Where many Spanish ships were kept;
Men, merged with water, longed to weep
While water, with men, sadly wept.
“Yet, we could not, nor could we try;
No longer breathe, nor laugh, nor love!
Tears we eat, they are the sky
That drifts below the sky above;
And locked we are, as prisoners here,
Water halts our way to Heaven,
Nor can we dig to gates of Weir
Our spades, to rust, are freely given.
“Poseidon—that great god of sea—
Is more hated then Hell itself;
He rules over us, yea over me,
In all his rich and water wealth.
Yet, since in war, we were led here
His punishments saved for us alone;
And his dregs, more dark then fear,
Proceed from his own lichen throne.
“The manta ray does plague our soul
With stings that stung forevermore,
And darkness that looms black as coal
Seeks to erase all thoughts of yore.
The Octopus does drink our blood,
The kelp entangles round our throat;
And, through this all, our lord has stood
His eyes upon his captives gloat.
“He seeks to break our very minds
Yet, this he’s done, and knows it well;
But still, upon the stone he grinds
Our souls within this hated hell.
For one thing yet he has not broken
And this we cling to as the vine,
Clings to the oak when storms awaken
To tear her grasp, and fit in line.
“It is our souls, our spirits youth—
Though, unto him, they serving, bow.
We still recall, though yet aloof,
The lives we lived ere living now.
We remember, as once it were,
Our youthful wives with angel face:
The touch, the voice, and feel of her,
Each thought our memories can’t erase.
“We recall each quaint daffodil
That bloomed throughout the summer long,
With every valley held silent still
Though thrust amidst all sight and song.
Our children with their smiling faces,
Do light our heart and cheer our minds;
For from us, it now erases,
Rekindles spirits of our kind.
“So, though our hell be dark and deep—
We see not the light of day—
Our eyes do shine, our spirits keep
Our hearts preserved, to guide our way.
And, though damned of damned we be—
For Poseidon’s slaves we are now—
We cannot, will not, honestly
Bend our knees in gracious bow.
“For, though long and far we now roam,
In time the dead will find their home.”
