Breaker, Breaker, Breaker
Thrash, thrash, and thrash against the shore
Gentle strokes, Edge of mile sand
Returning sand, His feather creatures treading little feet—after the receding tides, He who watches the returning waterfowls day after day to chase the laughers away
Was that not His Grace?
Oh haven't I meet His Grace.
In amidst way, I am of His gaze.
