We rise from brine and breaking wave,
Our lungs first filled by ancient tide—
The moon’s pull constant in our blood,
We dream in songs where leviathans glide.

We cradle the sea in our language,
Name her mother, muse, and abyss—
We etch her storms in ancient ballads,
As ships sink in the hush of her kiss.

We build our cities on her patience,
Harvest her secrets, take her gift,
We praise the blue abundance offered—
Blind as the tide recoils, and fortunes drift.

But as we cast our nets of longing,
And draw her depths into our hands,
We forget we are her children—
And raise our empires on vanishing lands.

For every vow we whispered in reverence
Is betrayed for comfort, lost for gain;
We poison the altar with our restless hunger—
Then mourn the goddess we ourselves have slain.

Yet still, we draft our grand manifestos,
Declare ourselves her stewards true—
We crown intent with virtue’s hollow language,
And scrawl belated wisdom as if anew.

And as the oceans rise to greet us,
Swallowing all we’ve built in vain pride,
We cling to ghosts of cleverness—
Drowning in the truths we long denied.