quiet the waters once had lain, as if they’d slumber through all of
eternity. And yet steady, steady, since the days’ beginnings, ever, ever
has rocked the sea. Back and forth, forth and back again: gently,
smoothly, silently. It might appear that this is the way the Gods once
created them, the way they meant them to be.
But the Wind, the Spirit, had been first, and then through the Wind
emerged the Earth, to reflect on all that is the Wind – different in
essence, as an element akin. And awakened, inspired by sá Avásh, the
Very-First-of-All, and só Mód, the one that came after, arose the forces
of the In-Between: the fervent, eager son, and the becalming, tranquil
daughter, the Fire and the Water. And thus the four would begin to wage
s’Okrói, the Everlasting War, as from the One many had sprung, and a
single among many always wants more. Since then the Earth has raged
against the Wind, and its desire became the lust inherent in só Efér, the
Fire. While the Wind challenges all that is rigid, permanent and numb, he
spurs on to change and to become, leave behind what once had been, sa Már
is his weapon, Water is his means.
Man, the Cárpa’dosía says, is a player in the eternal struggle.
Man, it says, is the Water’s child, ever on his way between Earth and
Wind. It is written that in his breast a flame is burning hot and wild,
but with the will to overcome its craving it was twinned.
Sailor! Heed those words of ancient elven lore, when you ponder over the
mysteries of the sea. The waters might all look quiet, calm, but in the
divine scheme laid out for us the storm is also meant to be.
I put the tome away.
The lamp hanging from the wall, my chest below the bunk, the f’oc’sle as
whole – they rise, they fall, reflect what drives, incites, what pushes
all, and thus with the sea I also rise, I fall. Steady, steady everything
goes with the long heavy swell carrying the brig, up and down, up, and
down again. Each movement seems more intense than the one that rocked the
ship before, while in a corner sea boots, rags, buckets in their own way
ride along, scraping rhythmically on the wooden floor.
Throughout the morning things have changed. Though only just a while ago
everything was fine.
With the night’s final watch mine, the day had begun, but aside from the
breaking morn’s welcoming chill, had proved uneventful: Sunrise found the
ship lying perfectly still. Then the sails were reset: topsails,
topgallants, royals, the stays, tier upon tier. Ha, I almost felt like a
full-fledged buccaneer when a seaman’s cheeky parrot quipped: “Lazy ye
bastards, rough’s the sea!” Heh, indeed he’d caught me while I stood idle,
watching, chatting, sipping my tea...
short while thereafter from the masthead the second mate reported land –
right there, on the starboard bow. It seems strange that I recall that
now, when the last trace of solid ground long, long ago has drifted away.
As the hours went by greyness was taking over and hopes dwindled that good
fortune had come for a longer stay.
All the while the sea had risen and fallen, as it always does, unassuming,
secretly – no hint of real surge, retreat, not even a subtle, noticeable
swell. From one horizon’s end towards the other reaching, waters upon
waters quietly went up and down, ever busy in being what they were,
self-absorbed, even from the skies ignored, like a giant sliver of
everlasting blue: blessed, infinite, contented through and through.
Aye, so quiet the waters had lain, as if they’d slumber from dawn to dusk
all through the day. And yet since the day’s beginning, ever, ever
steadily, the wind has roamed the lands, the wind has rocked the sea. Back
and forth, forth and back again: gently, smoothly, silently, the wind
roams the lands and the wind rocks the sea.
But hours went by, and not a single further crag nor reef, least of all an
isle disturbed the perfect solitude, no other brig, barque nor boat was to
be seen. The few birds that crossed over from time to time seemed lost and
desperate in search of something solid, something, anything
And then the clouds moved in. Rapidly, grey and sombre, eastward bound.
As they were racing above the ship, all hands set out and prepared the
bracing – sail by sail, to brave the weather, and as best we could avoid
the looming gale. However, the giant course sails soon were buckling,
flogging, the upper sheets pressed hard against the masts and the captain
commanded tauntingly: “Lifelines ready, enjoy it while it lasts!”
Chased by the building clouds the ship kept on ploughing, the wind was
shifting, howling, soughing. Gusts were beating, biting, rising, rushing.
A scary roaring shook the rigging.
“A-a-all hands ahoy! A-a-all men! Ahoy!”
But to the elemental force that hit the brig, man soon appeared nothing
but a fragile toy.
“A-a-all hands ahoy! A-a-all men! Ahoy!”
The voice though that yelled was drowned out right as it spoke, almost
muted by the suddenly tumultuous sea, the whipping wind, the violent
clattering of the sails. The sea was already a-tumble, dark clouds lit up
and rumbled, footsteps were thumping all over the deck, frightening
banging sounds of shifting load reached us from deep down in the hold.
Even now, lying on my bunk, outside I can hear the men still yelling. But
here in the f’oc’sle I’m all alone.
“This not for ye, landlubber! Too wet behind the ears,” they said. “Ye’ve
done your shift, now off you go. Better try to rest your head!”
I notice now that my hand goes all atremble. Though I’m safe here, sound.
At least I murmur that to myself. Surrounded by everything I've got used
to: Bunks, hammocks, tables, lamps and chairs, cards left from last
night’s game of Knucklethrough. A couple of tricks still lie around, the
triumphant winning pairs.
At first glance all might look comfy, cozy. The stove provides warmth. But
the waters out there have risen, the bull's-eye doesn't lie.
The closest thing I hear is the constant groaning of the hull, but what
otherwise helped beaten seamen into a lull, inspired dreams, made one
drift off, sound and deep, now rings all but foreboding: I’m tired, but
there’s no way I can sleep. It’s as if with every creak and groan the
words in the tome have become alive, feed on my fears, and thus encouraged
they now take over and thrive...
I listen intently. More muffled shouting, cursing, yelling, commanding
abound. Urgent, busy trampling of men’s feet. Dozens of boots, dozens of
different beats. Barrels, crates now career wildly about the deck. There's
the sound of ropes whipping around the masts – until by crewmen finally
held in check.
Spray like heavy mist engulfs the ship. One of the men struggling on the
mizzen shrieks before he loses grip and towards starboard swept crashes
into a net, takes men with him who tried to flee, a moment later once more
showered by the aggressive nature exhibited by the frantic sea.
The worst had been averted, but the storm rages on.
“Quick! Reinforce those hatches! Get the safety nettings up! Rig the
lifelines! Not enough, repeat!” And so they go: Hands here, hands there.
“That's it, mates! We’ve not come that far to now concede defeat!”
A captain’s voice needs to bellow, its fierceness coveys its strength.
However, wind and weather drives at us from astern, a most vicious sea is
running. There’s a lightning flash, waters heaving, collapsing, then a
thunder crash. Yet even darker ominous clouds are brewing, larger and
larger watery mounts keep on our trail, pursuing...
“Captain! T’lower topsail sheet’s parted!” the first mate out of breath
reports. “Sail’s blown out!”
Over the quarter-deck ring his desperate, disquieting shouts.
Panic-stricken he signals, and momentarily more feet are already on the
Looking up one can see the flailing wreckage tangling from the mast.
“Haul it down! Furl it, lads! Clew up the remnants! On with it now, fast!”
The booming voice gives out its orders, but the unyielding sea once more
looms over the rails.
“Damn it, boys, ignore the waters, up you go – now! – and fix those
As the captain speaks the sea pours in. Through the bow-, the hawse-holes
the menace greets, over the knight-heads the enemy comes streaming, its
power, its force threatening to wash everything aboard.
Yet there’s a will, a voice, a man’s defiant choice.
How clear, how strong, how resolute a command, uttered by one who takes
his stand. How stalwart, courageous and unswerving the intent he shows for
attaining and preserving the way he considers things are meant to be. He
tames them, sorts them, arranges them, all according to what he wants to
see. And tends to brush off everything that’s in his way, is prone to
disagree: traits of man. An element among elements: Within the Earth’s and
Wind’s confines he’s master of what he himself defines as vital,
essential, imperative – such is how he conceives the world’s design.
Dreams may give him direction, visions, though for him it’s reason that
dictates decisions. He creates following the example of the Gods, but in
his hubris he also dares betting against all odds. There’s the will in him
that wants to master what he cannot grasp, to subdue what he succeeds to
overcome, to push for more, never content with what he has done. Such is
the way of man: Facing the storm, coercing it to go with a man made plan.
One by one they climb the
masts. They handle their tasks while muttering, keep on curses sputtering,
some expressions defiant, stern, the others distraught, aghast. But the
sea takes no prisoners, and neither should we. We’re out there together
faced with the tempest, for valour it calls, so braved it shall be. Away
with you doubts, choices need to be made. For one must lead. A captain’s
will is not to be swayed when the time to act has come. When chaos reigns
it is his voice that has to be obeyed, for second chances this gale
However, I’ve seen such waters many a time, and I know: the fiercest
battles are never won just by force. The ship ploughs on, now rolls on top
of an enormous watery crest, rocking in a see-saw motion – so many, many
of those crests have popped up, and by now they’ve filled the whole
“Aye, aye, steady, steady as she goes,” I confirm the helmsman’s course.
When you have to walk the Netherworlds just keep your calm, they say, pick
your path. Then head straight on – don’t ever look back, don’t heed the
horrors that pave your way. Aye, aye, I hear you: Ride the waves, make
friends from foes, follow your tune: “Steady, steady as she goes...”
And the Netherworlds move in on us.
It’s the mass of a moving mountain that heaves the brig now high into the
air, once more sends her towards the blackness substituting for a sky.
Back again we then plunge, into a valley that’s more like a lair – nothing
there either but dreariness and gloom: It’s a journey that progress
belies, either down a gaping, scary rift or up by way of a daunting,
dizzying lift, always we’re but engulfed by harbingers of doom.
And the Netherworlds move in on us.
“Aye Baveras, we’ve heard your
wrath!" So I pray while the icy wind nails me to the mizzen mast. We drop
into the abyss, then again rise from the depths, the freeing ports
spouting. Again and again the spectacle repeats itself, and men keep on
running, rigging, shouting.
Picture description. The
storm is upon us... Image drawn by
"Baveras, you've shown us your might, and with your rains
and floods sent your minions to cross our path... – We’ve seen them, felt
them, fought them. Whom will you prey on, now say, before your fury dies
and the watery masses again will ebb away?”
For now there's no answer the almighty Goddess provides. Just her pet, the
sea, surging, playing with us: hurling herself into the air, from her
unimagined depths emerging, scourging the vessel wave by wave. The waters
come crashing with thunderous plumes of spray, in their vehemence
oblivious to how we yell for mercy, lament, wail and pray. While from
above the rain drizzles unrelentingly, water, dark and voracious sloshes
over from all sides, pours into the ship again, swirls upon swirls fill
the deck. Wherever we move, whatever we try, it seems no use – from the
elements we're firmly held in check.
"Forgive me, for I have
sinned, oh Wild and Untamed One," a mate next to me joins in. "Spare my
soul, just this time. I'll swear, wherever I once went wrong: if you now
help me through, whatever comes I will stay strong! For aren't you also
the Helping, the Kind and Caring, the One who forgives man's faults,
corrects him when he's erring? Who leads him to calmer waters – waters
sparkling, soft and smooth and ripe with fish, invites us all to stay
there, rejoice and hunt for such delicious dish? Aren’t you the One, who
lets him once more appreciate the beauty of the sea, and through it we
learn to live, to love and prosper, to worship, aye, to be? Forgive me, oh
Baveras, you Playful, Joyful One: Won't you let those clouds now part,
bless us with a glimpse of sun?"
I remember him mumbling the very same words again and again – a mantra of
confessions, promises, pleas brought forward with devotion – out of awe
born they are, of reverence in the face of the furious, rampant, raging
ocean. And thus he keeps on repeating them, it is all he can do, helpless
himself as man amongst man, overpowered by the enormity that is the giant
sea, dwarfed by masses moving, proving how insignificant, how random their
existence makes a single someone in midst of vastness be.
As for myself, I've fallen silent as I work.
While I'm clearing the tangled buntlines I watch my mates. Their fear
speaks through their words, their every action. Beaten by the wind they
stagger around like puppets on strings, and whatever they utter, all they
really do is mutter – excuses about how and what they are. Yet they do so
as if they're looking at their own selves back from afar, as if they've
actually parted from what they've been, pretending to already be that
someone else – another, that future self: the one they dream to be rather
than how and what they've always been. But wind and weather, and Baveras'
spirit therein, they have it all seen, have it all seen. They know what
man is: the pulse of change between aspirations and his past. He's fickle,
not lost for the prayers he once missed, but only when he finally grasps
that the ways he's taken so far won't last. While there's will and
determination in him, the seed to prevail against prospects grim, he's
also weak if he's not alert, bound to failure if he stays inert. Aye, to a
quick prayer the Gods may nod, but more likely they might remind us what
we forgot when we so blindly begged them to do our will, instead of
setting out ourselves, in order to fulfill what was once bedded with us in
our cradle, acknowledge that we are able to bend what comes our way, to
tip the scales, decide what's our want and what's left for the Gods
So it is written, so I turn
Thinking, I'm still lying awake on my bunk. I ponder about mommins, and
pa, all my sibs. I imagine them hearing the news about our ship, how it
sunk, just that other week. That it was supposed to long have fought, but
then lost its battle against the merciless torrent. How it was covered,
eventually, by a surge abhorrent, and that men from a distant brig
observed how the vessel capsized, rolled to port, and then was quickly
taken down. Down to the unfathomable grounds far, far beneath. And I
imagine that the one ship that saw it all later returned to the spot,
returned, just to throw us a wreath…
Timidly I look through one of the portholes. I dread the sight of the
monster out there, the continuously fuming, untamable sea: it’s breathing,
hissing like one giant beast, black and shiny as jet, all its savage
passion now released. Though I can't spot that other vessel, not yet, the
observer that would deliver the message to end the uncertainty for all my
imagined anxiously waiting addressees. I admit that there's trepidation in
me to get up and look whether the omen is behind a starboard porthole,
just quietly lurking on that other side. It might be far out there, away
from the storm, still gently rocking up and down, at times obscured by the
tide, that ship, that messenger of fate, that will make the outmost fear
come true: that all of us, whoever we are – captain, rigger, mate – that
this time we won't get through.
The shadowy thought quietly creeps over me: What once was cannot forever
be. The Gods created land, but they’ve surrounded them by moody seas. The
rain continues beating down, it won't let up. Time and again I hear a wave
rushing over the rails, exploding close, close by over the f’oc’sle.
Violent winds try tearing apart those makeshift sails.
I cannot say anymore whether it is day, night, dusk or dawn. Halfheartedly
I leaf through further pages, eventually I read on. Those lines... they
seem to stare back at me. My lamp still glimmers, but the more I listen to
the sound of water trickling, the more I feel forlorn. Once these verses
were spoken by an elf – fears, doubts of an existence torn:
Oh my Mistress! The
Storm breaks through this asking window,
clutching shutters, slams them aloud for keeping still;
far off I hear his grumbling as he wanders upon my willows,
and know for sure, he’ll strike again – and yes, he will.
Whence did he near, this neither friend nor foe of yours?
Who was the stranger, unleashing his forsaken might?
The sky grows darker, still my mind thinks even worse,
and my writing hand is all consumed by night.
Oh my dearest Mistress!
Why didst Thou let the traitor’s voice so loose?
Why must a distant howl grow more close and fierce?
Too long I’ve been sleeping, now woke up confused,
only to await what windy blades shall pierce?
In the end is this myth all but true,
that Thou art not here nor there?
That her struggle, belief, worship, say: truth
are just virtues the elf herself must bear?
Say: Is it all so true?
That our pain and hardship Thou wouldst not hear
and even faithful prayers – dear! –
Thou hast never deemed...
Storm’s been creeping outside my window,
thus all the time I’ve ever been.
Oh my Mistress!
I do know:
Thy Helpfulness, Thy Confidence,
all Thy Mightiness and Providence
– you've never ever dreamed.
But oh my Mistress!
Why are Thou
– not either?
As I read the lines once more, I slowly begin to grasp the elf’s unique
dilemma: For such must be the fate of the Dream’s self-absorbed Weaver:
Avá, the One, She’s eternal beauty born out of Naught, the corruption
though is what Coór, Her mirrored image, wrought. Not from this world, yet
entangled in Her own woven thread, the Weaver exists through an Other, the
storm lives in Her stead. The Dreamer is not what is, just her Shadow, and
the world is his.
Oh, how gnawing doubt can make an elf look almost human! Struggling in the
tangled web of the inscrutable Schemer it’s hard to sense how untroubled,
how soft and sound can rest existence’s lonesome Dreamer. But lore says
that She’s unlike what She created, that what we perceive is merely
reflected, fragmented, a phantom – but the Dreamer Herself, She cannot be
debated. And thus Her Dream pervades the living, and life also builds upon
the dead: May Coór, the Dark One, keep whole worlds in thrall, they’re
however part of the Dreamer’s slumber and the sounder She sleeps the more
She embraces them all.
Far away the elf 's trouble seems and yet it feels so close.
I sink back into bed, shut my eyes and contemplate time and place where
I've been led in my short, humble life – just a youth looking for
adventure, lacking goals, home, a wife. So it happened that I've drifted
along, come what may. Aye, the priests used to tell me the Gods have
given, and, yes, they can also take me away. – Ha, the Gods! I'm thankful
though for all I've learned, for friends, for pleasures, even times when I
got burned – but I've never ever given thought to all those things I ought
to decide before my time has come, before Queprur's scythe will drive me
to succumb, before I’ll face judgement by the one from the Twelvern known
as the Blind: She'd point the further path, given what I'd leave behind.
Aye, I trust there will be something there I’d leave, albeit I’m not the
one to know exactly what it is. Time may be short now, ready I have to be
– a runaway, a good-for-nothing, suitable just for burial at sea.
Prepare thy soulcup then, Queen of Rats,
take me if you must...
...and at this very moment the foc’s’le door
bursts open with a thunderous blast.
An unearthly, shrieking, blood-curdling howl pierces the air. All of a
sudden I’m assaulted by impressions of sails vehemently rattling, sailors
desperately battling, heavy sea splashing over the midship boards.
As commanded the ship however keeps its stalwart course, and the crew sticks
with its praying that we're heading lighter skies towards...
Through the opened door I now notice a gaunt man approaching from the stern. A
heavy coat thrown over his shoulders he has just stepped out, around his wrist
swings a flickering lamp: goes out into the storm to wander about. Amidst the
turmoil with his heavy boots clacking he grabs a lifeline, stops, looks around,
then inquires where another hand might be lacking.
Finally he spots me.
There I am, watching the unfamiliar scene from the safety of the foc’s’le,
sitting on my bunk, all alone, deserted by the others, here with my chest,
holding on to everything I’ve ever owned – but in truth it’s really nothing but
junk, for a simple life easily fits in a likewise ordinary trunk... The invading
tempest though nevertheless makes me shiver to the bone.
Our eyes lock. Two strangers who only once had seen each other before at the
docks, what must have been days ago. As the stranger catches my glimpse he
briefly nods, and while I’m hesitant I return the greeting.
No, I guess it was no substitute for a real meeting, but it must have been
arranged by intervention of the Gods, or so I would think days, months, years
from that one point in time when through the horror that grabbed me then would
shine an unknown, something so enormous, inconceivably sublime...
Pushed against the rail I lose my balance. Then I tumble and fall. Image drawn by
A forbidding wave like a vicious dragon rears its ugly head. The monster
emerges, shoots over the rail, by a gust whipped violently aboard. With it
the driving rain brings spray and hail – elusive foes, fearless of any
sword. Pitch black the serpent's liquid sleek body shines, smoking white
only at its foaming crest, and loud and furious one can hear a hissing,
conveying the wrath of the sneering unwelcome guest. Despite it strikes
out with claws and fangs missing the beast prepares for a decisive attack:
In a blink it charges along starboard, ferocious as an orcish riotous
horde, its momentum taking us aback...
The lifeline snaps, I’m flung
around. Everything disappears before my eyes.
Eventually, the spray settles, the thunderous noise subsides. Then, one
last time I see the stranger: Wide eyes of a youth, a mere hand, still on
his way to become a man, out on the ocean to see the world, and the world,
it looks back at him: on a dangerous course he is, another one who must
decide what’s destiny, what’s one of life's meaningless whims.
Pushed against the rail I lose my balance. Then I tumble and fall, I
tumble... and fall...
And within an instant – there goes all.
I mean to scream, but can’t. Something sucks me down. With gurgling
pleasure the depths devour its helpless prey. As I struggle I know all I
can do is sink and drown, sensing my life is now about to be snatched
away... Captured, defeated I give up, am pushed under, let myself get
swallowed by turmoil and stir. From the world above I feel torn, ripped
asunder as the sky in an instance transforms into a blur.
Whatever I’m surrounded with now turns calm, turns silent. My slate’s
wiped right clean. And the further I progress, the more I sink into the
in-between, to a place where a vision enwraps me, lets me remember, sense
and see: For a brief moment I become aware of her. There she is, in the
brightest white, with silky hair flowing, the features soft, head held
high as if the wind holds Her aloft, as if She's at comfort only up there,
floating in the sky. Yet She has touched down, just this once, and right
now She looks straight into my eyes. Then She closes them, Hers and mine,
and together we're swept away in the flow of a stream that feels safe and
secure, so pure, so serene: Soft, sound, solemn I drift, right back into a
Aye, mate! How certain, how
purposeful, how unperturbed and with fresh resolve one finds one’s self go
back to a place, a motion, a memory, a face – then, when all is lost, when
that final frontier has been reached, then crossed. It's the point of no
return, they say: No more ropes to learn, no sails to rig, anchors to
throw, masts to climb: nothing there ahead, astern... When you're
drifting, with the unknown merging, shifting – leaving... When you've been
picked for heading elsewhere: Slowly you forget about future, about past,
then thinking, breathing, embark on a voyage that is not anymore your own,
when you peel off your skin because it’s yourself you finally have
To reach these ever tranquil waters the harsh ones you have to pass
through. But once arrived you'll find the sea lying all still and the sky
above mirroring its blue. Then, when your things are done and you'll again
join the ocean's oh so magnificent hue. Then, when you'll return.
And yet, so distant the promised peace might seem when you're still being
rocked by those waves, when you just only get a taste of the storm
brewing, when you're being challenged, on your quest to find what's worth
But aye, it lies in a seaman’s blood to dream and feel, a life long
trapped between fore and aft, carried by the powers slumbering in the
keel. It’s in a seaman’s blood to loosen sails, to brace the yards and
venture forth on watery trails, by wind and weather battered, scarred,
roughened, toughened. To defy the beast that is the sea, to love her
dearly – yes, as such is she: a monster, a mother, a lover, call it that
other, the one that you are not, the one, who draws you, awes you, that
grabs, assaults you while you sleep, that lets you long for her and makes
you suffer and weep. That grants you passage on a sunny day, that stays
with you, leads you away, that lies becalmed, flat and quiet, then again
rejoices in newfound lust, inspires riot. But more often than not the wind
and the ocean keep you alive, in motion – to whatever you’re destined to
Until that day. When you once and for all reach that island, that shore,
that bay. Those calm waters. That day that is the day, it will come. The
point in time towards which you were born. The day when your travelling
boots stay in the corner, because they’ve had their share, the day when
they’re old and worn. You might live through it in peace and quiet, home
again, or as a stranger in a stranger’s land, maybe out at sea, riding a
surge, sharing it with others, loved ones, sisters, brothers, mates that
pulled you through. You might be all but forgotten, even cursing what
there ever was as wretched, damned, rotten, in time of need abandoned by
Aye, mate, to complement the day that you were born, there will be that
other one without the morn. Wherever you’ll be, however you’ll feel,
towards whatever coast the unknown helmsman finally turns the wheel: a
sailor’s spirit never leaves the sea, and like that monster, mother,
lover, he lives on with her, ever, ever in motion, has become part of the
eternal ocean. 'cause that's what you are: the one that draws and awes
another, that grabs, assaults one while they sleep, that lets them long,
makes them suffer and weep. You're that one, you're a note in eternity's
song. For you're more than the Gods' ephemeral tool, even a drowning
sailor is a ripple in the Dreamer's pool.
Aye, so quiet the waters once had lain, but since the days’ beginnings,
ever, ever has rocked the sea. Back and forth, forth and back again:
gently, smoothly, silently. But from the Wind sprang the Earth, and
through Wind and Earth the waters came to be. Thus the Great War began and
born was the tide, everlasting by nature, ever recurring, never meant to
subside. For unlike the Earth never ever would the Wind itself stand
still: be it through his liveliness or anger he's been exerting his will,
intent to destruct, but also to shape and to form – in its wake
tranquility, it owes itself to the storm. While the Wind whistles and over
land and waters is sweeping, the Dream's Weaver awakens to Herself as
She's sleeping. For in the Wind She feels there lies Her Spirit, that what
makes things be, what is reflected in the Earth, what longs with the Fire,
what drives the tide in the endless, ageless, ever moving sea. Might the
waters come and go, remember, oh ye man of the sea: nothing else do we.
Waves we've been, and waves we'll be, and waves are dreamt to rock the
sea. Never alone, it's our voyage we call home, and as we go we rock
alongside our sisters and brothers – through them, with them we are, born
to be rocked while rocking all the others. For that's what we waves are
meant to be: on our way between Wind and Earth, wave by wave, we make the
Waves among waves are fleeting, yet as a whole the ocean lives on. Forever
on, never gone, for waves are but the wind’s next songs.