Oh waters of Normandie!
Lonely after the fall
of twisted armour and twisted
bodies
of warriors destined to die.

Why are you so green and peaceful
shallow when you are all too ready to cull
from the sand
the last hurrahs of a dead
millenium?

All is silent, locked in a silent scream.
Where are the shouts of anger and pain
of war
which to me, a cloudly dream,
a mystique held over my head
never within sight
but plainly seen?

Your sun is fading, your tide the gripping hand.
Descend and take forth,
Brittany Land,
cleansing
a little less of our disease.