Mingled with these waves are voices of the ages:
laughter, weeping, the discourse of sages,
the turning, turning, turning of pages
filled with foam-words fleeing away.
White heralds above proclaim the news
with lovely but coarse and wistful mews
from their lofty and wind-tossed views
over shimmering salt seaspray.
The pink sun is leaving, the wind is sighing;
a single great blue heron is flying
close to the water while the day is dying
and while golden shores are turning to grey.
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