Conquest

The oceans speak of power, might, design.
I sit upon this cliff-top now and mourn
at tales the oceans tell to my decline.

They tell me of the ships they love to scorn.
They laugh regarding sailors they have drowned.
They cough up all the pieces they have torn.

Then noticing a silence—much of sound!
I hear no more the waves lash at cliff-shore,
and heavens, looking to the clouds, resound.

The tale, it loops around the green-spread moor,
and stretched-wide arms reach out to welcome me
as sages tell me of triumphant lore.

My hands have been destroyed by cruel sea,
but, looking back, a rising hand I see.

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