The days are cold . Seaspray stabs like tiny knives.
In the salty air, golden heroes erode to show their tin core.
Waves are crashing in , deafening.
The Albotross knows there is no magic on the surface,
Only deeper depths to excavate, after the storm.
There lie the treasures, the long sought answers. Reflection is only an illusion. Underneath truth waits.
The deepest depths are echoing now. Believing what they hear. Understanding.
Rising to meet the light.