Voices on the Wind Open Theme
DEAD SAILORS ALL by John Grey Below the surface, deeper even than my thoughts, dead men's bones roll like dice, elevens, sevens and hard eights. Legations of sailors feed the bottom, obscured by reef and wreck, indifferent to the clang of tolling waves, mere scattered chapters in unknown histories. I watch from the deck of a ship that cuts a minor wound in the Caribbean's turquoise skin, imagine, without malice, my current situation sinking, a gash in the side, a breach of the bow, a tip, a panic, a rumble, and then a slow, hypnotic dive of steel into the nether. The drowning is a terror sure but what of the blissful drifting, the plaintive rocking of gravity and dense as black-hole depths. And a prayer offered shapeless and easy by all who come this way to those who crumble beneath would also include the life I've lead. Death on solid ground is much too singular. It fades with its particular clan of mourners. But the sea is one huge burial ground. Any tear is welcome.