The Wailing Sea

[This poem, undiscovered for generations, was found inside a weathered chest containing the personal effects of one Tristan Ciar. Also present was a pocket watch enclosing a photograph of a young woman, and several hand-written letters from a Miss Selena Fairbank. Date unknown.]

Upon the marble stairway of a tomb,
A vault arisen from the wailing sea,
Four spirits carved in alabaster loom
As omens of the life awaiting me.

Astride the lashing waters, ushering
The tempest to beset his youthful glee,
The Sailor’s stony smile unwavering
Amid his endless battle with the sea.
The world laid out before him to unfold,
The timid manner of the shore-folk lost;
In time to feel his freedom growing old,
And only then to realise the cost.

The Maiden weeps into her hands, the drops
Of rain upon her palms and fingers fall
Into the sea; and when the torrent stops,
Her pallid lips proclaim no sound at all.
The loneliest of souls on this green earth
Are those who know the torment hope can be;
Awaiting evermore her lover’s berth,
The Maiden weeps, as you have wept for me.

Atop the marble stairs with pride awaits
The Champion, whose body lies in rest;
A figure fit to stand at heaven’s gate,
The worth of man in lifeless stone expressed.
The torrent weathered and the gale endured,
A noble soul entitled to acclaim;
His deeds, the vanquished tide has yet obscured,
For history does not recall his name.

And she who loved him stares into the waves,
The Widow keeping watch while others sleep;
Her solemn shadow cast upon his grave,
No longer does she bow her head and weep.
Her flawless eyes are mournfully serene,
And ever fixed upon the wailing sea;
Alive with dreams of all that might have been,
Of all that now will never come to be.