Your Waters Are Bitter Lyrics

Old Ocean, you do not easily let the avid eyes of natural science divine the thousand secrets of your eternal enigma: you are modest. Unlike man who boasts incessantly - over trifles, unable to grasp but a glimpse of the voidness that is to be his sorry fate.
The different species of life that you nurture have not sworn kinship amongst themselves.
The varying temperaments and conformations of each one explain what at first appears an anomaly. And so it is with man, who yet is missing an excuse such as that, living like a savage in his den, not to acknowledge his fellow crouching alike in another lair.
Old Ocean, your physical magnitude is only discernible if one can imagine the energy needed to beget your entire mass.

I wonder how a mere glance could ever encompass the lengths of your splendor. How could man's mundane perspective even comprehend a splinter of this darkest fortress that makes out to be your most impressive anatomy?
Mankind, in a preposterous attempt to gain the shape condign of their allowedly impressive idea of what beauty can be to the ardent and somewhat well-trained abstractionist, cannot ever equal you in volume, shape or glory.
Let this adorable frog puff itself up as much as it pleases and do stay calm: it will never be a match for you. It will never be a match for you.
Old Ocean, Your Waters Are Bitter. They have the very same taste as the bile which criticism secretes upon the fine arts, the sciences, the wisdom, the knowledge that is the solitary confinement for the lone wanderers, pariahs to the masses, outcasts, unrealised redeemers and dreamers, those pitiful souls, wretched bums that strayed too far in the eyes of the voice of normalcy (voice of normalcy).
The great universal human family is a utopia worthy of the most paltry logic. Besides, from the spectacle of your fecund breasts emerges the notion of ingratitude (the notion of ingratitude), for one thinks immediately of those innumerable parents ungrateful enough towards the Creator to abandon the fruit of their sorry unions.
Mankind must certainly feel its imperfections strongly indeed, devastatingly even - for it is painfully obvious that, at least, threequarters of them have their roots in the soil of its own responsibility.
And below it all thrones that observant patriarch, contemporary of the first epochs of our suspended globe, smiling with pity when present at the tribal factionism choosing his formidable belly as their pathetic playground.

I see a thousand leviathans sprung from human hands. Those cataclysmic orders pierced by shrieks of the wounded and cannon blasts - such a grand aural hell purposely made to annihilate but a mere instant.
To be swallowed by this formidable maw, presenting a spectacle that I so dearly adore. As they all followed deep into the last thing they saw - that global receptacle that one day will come ashore (one day will come ashore).