The Pleiads are rising-
No way of setting out of the harbor now. We are stuck
here, under white ceilings, long listening to the waters,
the waters. What do you pick out in the roar? Horses
and countless battle chariots coming in from the open
sea towards the beaches, row upon row of horses
breaking out of a thousand vases,
the whistling of their traces- you say- transforming
the flow into the rudderless heavy
heaving of wharves.

But I- like one asleep-
do not hear that the siege is on, I do not hear
the squeaking and whirring of wheels in the
sounds of the waters- like one asleep- all I hear
is the thickening of the waters
and the dimming of the light.

The wave you are hearing is made of mud
the wave you are hearing about to rear itself
up is an earthen wave.