She floats like a dream,
A specter on the horizon,
Soft and luminous,
As though she were made of the very air—
The delicate shimmer of her skin,
Reflecting the sun's last whispers,
An ethereal beauty,
Carrying the weight of centuries,
Of stories untold, and blood long dried.

But beneath her calm surface,
Before she sinks under,
She bears a darker truth,
Hidden in the folds of her fabric,
A truth that trembles with every ripple,
As the past creeps silently through the present,
And the tide pulls at her like a forgotten grief.

With each movement,
She carries with her the ghosts of battles—
The men who fell with swords in hand,
The soldiers who crossed the seas,
And the ones who never returned home.
Their cries still resonate,
Dying whispers on the wind,
Caught between the waves,
Lost in the folds of her endless depths.

The ocean, ever changing,
Yet eternally the same,
Becomes a tomb, a witness, a keeper—
The keeper of their sorrow,
The keeper of their shame.
Each crash of the wave,
Each curling crest,
Speaks their names,
But only the sea can hear them,
And only the ocean remembers.

The cries of the soldiers,
Echoing from the dark,
Carry on the breath of the sea,
Filling the air with longing,
With regret, with pain—
The dying cries of the soldiers,
Who thought their lives were fleeting,
Who thought their deaths would matter not,
But in truth, they live in the water,
In the memory of the earth.

And as the sun fades from the sky,
And the moon rises to take its place,
She floats like a dream,
An immortal shadow on the face of the deep.
Before she sinks, she is a vessel,
A cradle for the lost,
A quiet testament to what is gone,
And what was never truly understood.

Carrying in her folds,
The weight of time's cruelty,
The weight of sacrifice,
And the weight of the souls,
Now bound forever in the embrace of the sea.
In the silence between the waves,
In the whispers of the night,
The soldiers speak again,
Not in cries, but in the stillness,
In the silence that fills the night,
For they are never truly gone,
As long as the waves remember.

She floats like a dream,
Before she sinks under,
And with her, she carries the eternal memory—
Of the brave who fought,
Of the brave who fell,
And of the sea,
Which remembers it all.

She sinks beneath the horizon,
A shadow cast by the fading light,
But her journey does not end there,
In the dark, silent depths of night.
For the ocean is vast,
And time, it bends and breaks,
Yet in her eternal heart,
The weight of memory wakes.

Through the deep and rolling currents,
The soldiers’ souls swim on,
Carried in her cool embrace,
Where no sound of battle’s gone.
The tides hum a mournful tune,
A dirge for those who lie beneath,
As the ocean whispers softly,
In the language of grief.

She floats like a dream,
Her course now set by stars,
Guided by the quiet hand
Of the moon, who knows their scars.
The waves are her voice,
The wind is her breath,
And with each motion of the tide,
She speaks of their death.

Yet, though she is weary,
And though she is worn,
She moves ever onward,
With the weight of the world borne.
The soldiers march beside her,
Their footsteps soft and deep,
Treading the ocean’s floor
In a dance both strange and sweet.

The sea, she keeps her vigil,
Never forgetting, never still,
For the names etched in the waters
Cannot be washed away at will.
And in the quiet reflection,
When the winds and waves are calm,
The soldiers find a measure of peace,
In the ocean’s healing balm.

In the quiet, they...