Beneath the waves, the silence speaks, In currents carved by lunar grief. The ocean sways in ghostly rites, Called to move by silver light. The Moon, she watches, old and pale, Etching memories in the swell. Every tide, a whispered name, A story lost in salt and flame. The tides remember, the Moon won’t sleep. She pulls the past from the ocean’s deep. Every wave is a breath, a cry— A lullaby for those who died. She turns, she pulls, she mourns, she binds— The water keeps what man can’t find. Empires drowned beneath her gaze, Bones and rust in tidal graves. The shoreline shifts, but never forgets— Where blood was spilled, where sun once set. Each pulse of brine, a beat of time, Each crashing wave a funeral chime. You think the sea is dumb and blind— But it knows you. It knows your kind. She drags the sea with solemn grace, And tides obey, like slaves in space. But deeper still, where no light dares— The old gods stir. They're still down there... The tides remember, the wounds remain. The sea sings soft of joy and pain. The Moon records in silent scrolls, The rise and fall of mortal souls. So kneel, you wanderer, and pray, For the sea may speak your name one day. Pull me under… Let me know… What the tides remember… That time won’t show.
