The Eight in Seventy Two

Ploddingly it took the form Of some dispassionate melody Our wailing voices at crescendo For our undying we mourn With care they traipsed the deck A mass of notions in mind Did ten artlessly disappear or were held by the Atlantic's inside? Still we stood and tried to inform Searchers of our malady That we living men hitherto can presently not be seen Still we stand on Mary's deck To us the world is blind As they neither see nor hear our gestures nor our cries Not all can be explained Not all can we fathom Some presences can't be felt like the eight in seventy two