The clock has stopped

But the ship still turns

The maps are soaked, the ink has run

The sextant’s rusted and broken

They’ve dragged away the lighthouse keeper

And the stars are wreckers' lamps

And the rigging’s torn and ragged

And the waves are rising and crashing


home, we cry into the night
we engines of material
and you the engines of dreams
your home is here with us
with the bones of your ancestors
they, too, came looking
for wonders among cracked hulls
for ghosts along the shore
before they were extinguished
while yet we burn

do you even know how to see?
how can you stand to our height
and dare to call us wreckers
in the face of what you've wrought?

thanks to clockwrecker for the lämp

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