Far inland, in the cold and gloomy,
misty wooded mountains,
I huddled up to an open fire.
I picked up a large conch shell,
clad in mother of pearl,
resting by the fireplace and listened,
eye-to-ear, to its bottled,
shanty message.
I heard the soft familiar,
sweet hissing sound,
of the ocean’s breath.
Not a roar, not a crash,
but akin to...
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