For the Atlantic,
for hundreds of years,
they’ve penned
and sung their hymns.
Its bounty
feeds their young,
fattening them out
for prosperity
or icy blue slaughter.
Even their eyes
are hued
with its blues
and blackish greens,
this hallowed brine
which, in the same breath
it nurtures them,
lobs the flowered wreaths
for their dead.
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