They rise like the bones of an old, drowned god—
tilt slightly, whispering to the tide.
Hunchbacked monasteries on the lagoon,
bell towers, slender as heron necks.
Monks move shadow-thin through cloisters,
chants dissolving into the mist.
Screeching vespers over swaying boats,
lanterns flicker—small, defiant suns.
Salt gnaws at frescoed saints,
their faces blurring into rain.
The sea chews softly at the stones,
patient, waiting for surrender.
My gaze falters at the sight,
of my own shadow, mockingly.
Reaching farther than the dust,
the stars used to augment me.
Even the depths of my ventures,
fact that I’m steadily, losing my bet.
That I’ll be dead by tomorrow,
truly, enough shed of sorrow.
Still, the candles burn all night,
still, the psalms lap at the dark.
The tide may take it, inch by inch,
but not yet— not yet—not yet.
Thank you for asking me to write on this Atticus 🙏🏻
It was my pleasure, Drieks.
Powerfully penned, Adagio & Drieks. Excellent collaboration you two. Appreciate you, both.
Damian
We thank you, Damian.