The ruins of our armor
is buried
Running deep inside Persian handwriting
Spinning around me,
To capture the image
Without casting a shadow
Like rings of Saturn
Circling indefinitely in
cold, silent space.
The mighty Atlantic
Beats ruthlessly into her shores
As the morning tides
race for the dunes.
She cries out words
Only the oceans can pronounce
And reaches for fading night vapors
Of sweet Pacific lullabies.
The sound echoes
From corners of the Baltic Sea;
I am a sailor, viking, and gypsy
In the language of our ransom.