Quoniam si voluisses sacrificium, dedissem utique
He slices waters, on the search
For something still, he is an old
Master of bloodlust and the kill.
Detritus and the dead no longer
Kill the pain, and his need grows,
Searching for the living, the pulsing.
She gathers waters like a crop,
Her smooth belly curved to cup
The currents and slap the weeds.
The hunters call her "Virgin of the Sea"
She's only legend, a mystery.
Deep leads to deeper,
To places the hunter and virgin don't go,
They are made for the shallows
The places where the sun still reaches.
And so, circling each other, contact is made.
It's not fate; it's coincidence.
Fate is too beautiful a word for
Wrong place, wrong time.
She lies, beautiful belly up,
In the sun as she once longed to be,
A sad sea cow. He sings no dirge for her.