Tiresome is the breeze,
Flowing like waves of summer heat,
Yet cold to the touch.
Those who travel tremble ever so much.

Back to the seas, the water, it calls,
Beckoning in agony,
In a voice one hardly hears,
Trembling in monotony.

The saline water is akin to fire ,
One cannot go in too deep.
For when the conscious is beaten by desire,
Death only takes one leap.

This is why the sandy beach runs dark,
At night when black is deepest before dawn.
Even if the water whimpers, nothing calls back
Truly, lonesome is the ocean.