I walked 52 countries wide 

my feet weary and bruised. 

i let the tide wash over them,

52 lovers all die, a muse.

With the crashing of a wave,

their indifference

to the sounds i make,

to the waves of frequency running 

through my brain.

8 hertz and 8 hurts,

A stranger

in every town,

speaking the tongues 

of the Pentecost.

 

i sit on the beach 

at the tip of  circumference 

of this long reach

there is not a human man 

that knows my pain,

but i teach it to the sky and call the birds

for even they know their own song if in vain.

And 24 blackbirds flew around me

until the raven cawed,

till the sea clawed me back

 

No human babe

cries for my milk

i am damp with scales

i find company with mermaids

sewing their aquatic silk

around their tails

swimming and singing

for a sailor

to feed their dissatisfied wails

 

The lonely all fall into the deep,

where posiedon weeps

an anthropomorphic balm

so even the whales know

how to cast asunder,

the ocean thunders on 

 overwhelming 

us to think

the song 

of the whales  

is about us.

The stars above 

try to tell us.

We are one.

All except one.

We devise our own reasons

for the cross,

and so for the lost, 

we blame gods biology.

There are too many people

and not enough space for the whales.

Something has to put a stop to this,

someone, a sacrifice,

a sacrificial song

52 hertz, they named him his words

and his specialness preserved him

and us

for always.

Till the echo rounds the curve.