The open sea

If to have visions
Upon smooth lakes
And those above do wake
Do wake to see
Is not the fish but one
In the light of golden sun?
Is not the tree that grows
The piece for carvers bows?
And the winds
How do they breeze and gale
Upon an ocean going sail?
And is not the master
And his serf
Deserving of their woven tale?
O being
Winds do come and go
And natures balancing
Whilst in gales and breeze,
Mortals,
Mortals sing and shout
In harmony
And lakes so smooth must wake
To spill the open sea

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