The land doesn’t know me. Beneath paved stones and cities glistening, cities in decay, the land is a stranger. It sits deep and far away from the strangers who arrived on the shores so long ago and dug deep with cruel ambition. Strangers who sowed seeds and watered the ground with the blood of their brothers. They reaped no beautiful thing. No, the land doesn’t know me: a hateful thing born from spoiled ground.
I dare gaze heavenward and meet a curious and suspicious grin:
“Who are you?”
It is the fault of the sea. That Atlantic Ocean bore ships Westward on a wicked errand. Whales parted the way moved on warmer currents away from this evil business. In the dead of night, the cold water got but a taste of what men would do upon a strange land.
Was any good thing carried on the sea air? From the throats of men whose backs strained from this work (though the architect was not among them) a song of resilience. From deep within the bowels of those vessels, mothers howled the plight of humanity: a Siren’s lullaby, a deep and heavy stain.
No, the land never knew me.
Back to the Atlantic I flew, to that enabler of an epic that should never have been. Back across the sea.
Ah, bless my piratey heart!
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