The wind stirs it first,
Whispers across its surface,
Ripples become unrest,
Until unrest becomes motion

It will rise,
It will fall,
Not by choice,
But something greater

The sea always leaves,
Even at its greatest,
A quiet retreat awaits,
Salted shores in its wake

Above it all,
The endless sky

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Miraman, in the year 1001 AF.