the nymphs that raise the waves to the hand of Poseidon’s trident

dash fast after the dolphins and lift melodious spray

though cadence and meter lead their leaping little legs

only Bach could wish to capture their moments so flawlessly

the breadth of the seas has no borders and exists through every crease of the earth

and though their sprinkling little hands never touch an inch of soil

sometimes they lend their pond to the sky and keep the salt for their complexion

sister river may never dry by their hands and their tresses douse the trees

and their lips touch the toes of sweet children while hands guide the lost to shore

though sometimes they scream in agony and throw their poor bodies thresh

onto decks and houses and constructions who disrupt their methodic pulse

dissonant hearts shattering at the palm of industry and oil

their mouths peal thunder from heavens while their tantrums tear wood from floor

no nail or steel or father hand can curb the destruction laid out from strife

for when the nymphs feed vanity on the surface of glossy caress

find murky upon their features soft cheeks and the death of so many sweet friends

eventually their wading desists and up the waves they shall sleep

though try to remember the temperamental caress of the nymphs who often dance

in the night