At a window that looked to the edge of the sea, within the home that sheltered her, she perhaps saw me when I was callous and need not care for her or the land or the sea. Now I think I will soon join her and perhaps then have time to speak to her of the good earth and cleansing sea and explain what she has finally come to mean to me.
Yet if there was a god I would need not explain. If there was a god, protection of her would have sprung for in goodness she was supreme. Tell me why was her love for her god not rewarded? Why was she left to suffer? Leave me. Let me rage, fill the air curse to curse for what of this god, this god whose back was turned what do I owe him save my fury in equal measure to her love.
Look there. Her grave. Pitiful thing. Who would know that the best of our lot lies below. Build here a monument colossal in scope and size, raise it to goodness, patience and forgiving love. Hold. It does no good. Be deaf to a fool. Surely I knew by having her her god was also there. Then I cease here for my curse echoes to her. Ah, but it is not fair — I live, she does not.