Below the surface, where light is but a forgotten whisper, the clouds dance above the silent depths.
In deep echoes, we sculpt dreams, wrapped in kelp and hardened by salt—ironic is the ambition to fly,
when the ocean urges us to sink softly into its arms.
Once, a fish dreamed of wings, its scales shimmering like stars—an act of irony, for it flew only in its mind,
chasing clouds with relentless ambition as the world above remained indifferent.
Understanding the Depths is a folly in itself, akin to reading
the air’s intricacies through the eyes of a sea cucumber.
Lament the irony of a dolphin, waltzing with metaphors, believing itself a poet between the tides.
Yet, what jewel is this, a cloud within the sea’s vault, refracting dreams into tempting mirages?
Illusion of the Tide