Men are there, they conduit pain.
Meat of the sea, it runs to their nets, while running from them — haggard hunters of brownshore that they are.
The Ocean is a song they’ve sung but can’t master, even though they with clumsy paws are in charge of the whole earth.
Solemn is the tale which fancies their bones. Broken and growing is the fiber on their muscle.
You can rely on those, lean even the entire world upon them, these isolative and stoic creatures the universe calls men — even while tiny hordes of monster run up and down the thread their sun-beat bodies.
Statues and Stewards, these men dream of waters wide and women wider. They love to provide, from out of deep places in their sinewy blood and their never-quit sweat, and they’ll do all of these things until their very last limp has turned to ash on these shores of Terra.
Why do we hate these men, who serve us so?
Because of things three, perhaps even four:
We focus on their monsters too much.
We deny the beast inside of ourselves.
We despise even one singular moment beneath the sun, where we ourselves our not kings of sea and earth.
Men have misused the strengths of their will.
Tides come, and Water refresh.
Men.
Laugh with them, or at them, or even on top of them.
Only unthank them not.
These warriors who risk their sacredest neuron, all to guard and provide for us here,
even when we sometime stop asking them to do so. . .
Brownshore’s Men.
We salute your limp, monsters be damned.
