And she went so far out to sea
That she couldn’t see the rain
The wind there was like the sea itself
Dark and deep and wild
Like mountains that moved with the storm.
And every fog she touched
Was like her own breath
Whistled towards a long-lost coast
Lost and lost again
With each passing mist that wreathed her.
And each passing day that left her
Washed by another salty crest
Another salty breath
Of a certain sort of yearning
That is born only in the stormy sea.
Where grey hills rise and fall
And stretch to the edge of the world
In one giant circle that trembles
Beneath one giant sphere
Swirling grey – and grey – spiraling into each other.
