Crashing waves rear like stallions,

Tides rage with infant fury—

No cradle could contain such spite.

You lash at shores with serpent-spite,

Mountains bow before your height.

Ancient darkness masked in azure,

Your surface sparkles—diamond-bright lies.

Beneath that mask, abyssal black

Where nightmares swim and daylight dies.

"She sings of gold," the sailors whisper,

Moths drawn to your siren-flame.

At dawn they sail, seduced by tales

Of treasures in your deadly game.

Like patient spider, glass-smooth surface

Reflects the sky's deceptive peace.

Until they're far from sanctuary—

Then comes the storm, your wild release.

No land in sight. Your mask now shatters.

Thunder-voice and cyclone-breath,

Your waves rise high as cathedral spires

To conduct this mass of death.

Timbers splinter, voices scream,

Then silence drowns them all.

Another tale for harbor wives,

Another ship's last call.

You collect them in your archives:

Galleons wrapped in coral shrouds,

Phoenician gold and Roman pride,

Viking hearts grown cold as stone.

From deepest trench to frozen pole,

You rule with fluid grace.

Volcanoes hiss to nothing here,

Mountains crumble in your embrace.

No bias in your hunger—

Kings and slaves alike

Feed your endless appetite,

Lost to your infinite night.

Still you sing your siren song,

Blue beauty hiding death below.

Each generation hears your call,

Each dreams of glory as they go.

Their bones rest in your graveyard now,

White cities in the deep.

Their final fee paid in full—

These secrets you will keep.