POETRY | NATURE | ETERNITY

In the White Foam of the Days…

I am the ocean

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I am the ocean, and each restless wave Lies bound to the storms that awaken my mind; In thunderous anger I moan, and I rave, As though I would shatter all humankind. Each fragment and piece of this world gone astray — The souls on the dunes in their pale, drifting bands, The bright city streets where, not long from the bay, A wanderer kissed his beloved’s soft hands.

Then onward he journeys, compelled by his fate — What meaning in living does he truly find? To me, all around seems diminished by weight, And fades in the grasp of the wrath I have twined. The world may appear both majestic and grand, Yet still in my furious embrace it shall cease; For none may withstand what I sternly command, Nor silence the tempest that robs me of peace.

I am the ocean, yet each newborn wave Is a child of my own, ever rising anew; Not born from the womb of a woman, herself, But forged by a power eternal and true. Within me, there churns an age-withered fear, That lonely I’ll wander till time’s final breath; For all who are living today will disappear, While I must endure through the centuries left.

No harbor I’ll find and no refuge I’ll know, But endlessly thunder and endlessly roam; With white-crested fury I’ll hurl, and I’ll throw My sorrowing heart on the desolate foam. I’ll break myself endlessly there on the shore, A captive to anger, its servant, its slave — Yet love and its meaning I’ll fathom no more, Though ages may pass with each grief-stricken wave.

Mariana Busarova, June 2026. All rights reserved.