Old is the rocks building the stairs
climbed by the rusty men who ate birdfish on Fridays,
is the sharp shelf pushed out of the waves over waves and waves.
Long lost is the ship bringing northmen to the shore to crush.
Crush what?
Heavy is the mass over waves and waves
teetering up old stone stairs
to the hiding place,
the spacious place
prepared for them who wait,
who run to the highest to wait.
To wait for what?
The crush or glory,
not rescue.
Rescue is teetering down old stone stairs over waves and waves,
is hooked back into the whole.
The heavy mass is left sharp to the birdfish safe on Fridays,
from the rusty men who came to leave
but left in the end.