[Intro] This story is one of plenty, prehistory’s hymns piercing the legacy, Repeated through centuries by the proper poor’s symphony. A genealogy of agony written in the perils of a map, About the bodies at sea drifting into perhaps. About the bodies at sea drifting into perhaps. perhaps without loved ones, a new life by desperate design, Hiding from the terror of tyranny to find terrors of the brine. But the horizon’s nothing but a distant receding line. Many bodies at sea drifting into perhaps. Many bodies at sea drifting into perhaps. Perhaps they wave to no one as we leave the empty shore, Perhaps a quiet panic whispering from their closed doors. Stored in camps because they didn’t sink to the ocean floor. [Chorus] The moonlight washes over the names we forgot, At the ocean’s shore, they land, frightened and fraught Warm bodies, cold bodies, for sand in the deep, The cries of the centuries, but the waters don’t speak. To those who don’t listen. [Verse 1] Hand in hand we help hide each other’s fear, but it’s leaking through the seams, In the belly of this wooden beast, suffocating our dreams. He’s here with me. His knuckles white, gripping tight to my coat, While the devil plays a heavy percussion on the hull of the boat. We’re all touching and sweating and crammed, a human jam in the hold, Warm bodies at sea, bought and bartered and sold for a promise. She can smell him. His musk, overripe orange with garlic like fathers used to wear, A pungent reminder that he’s no longer there. He’s here with me. He’s the anchor to her mind as the timber starts to groan, Whirlpools and lightning storms in the waters spewed by a cyclone. The waves are skyscrapers collapsing on their heads, a liquid’s arcade, Warm bodies at sea, terrified of the price that’s been paid. [Chorus] The moonlight washes over the names we forgot, At the ocean’s shore, they land, frightened and fraught Warm bodies, cold bodies, for sand in the deep, The cries of the centuries, but the waters don’t speak. To those who don’t listen. [Verse 2] The air is thick, a toxic mix, the atmosphere begins to choke, His breath like sour apples, always cloaked in smoke. She leans close, gasping for oxygen, the memory starts to twist and bomb, She whispers to the dark: Was it like Mom’s? Was her breath this warm? They’re hungry and touching and sweating and crammed, a mass of living meat, Warm bodies at sea, sliding in the bile at their feet. His scrawny arm hides stories, a map of scars from a life growing colder, But he stretches it out, a fragile shield, and wraps it around her shoulder. He’s here with me. He’s still breathing. I can feel the pulse in his wrist. But the narrative is shifting as the water turns to mist. Blistering bodies. Piss and s**t on our legs. The degradation is absolute and bare. They are too nauseated, too dehumanized, too frightened to care. The transition is subtle. The heat evaporates. The shiver begins to creep. Cold bodies at sea. The ocean invites them to sleep. [Chorus] The moonlight washes over the names we forgot, At the ocean’s shore, they land, frightened and fraught Warm bodies, cold bodies, for sand in the deep, The cries of the centuries, but the waters don’t speak. To those who don’t listen. [Verse 3] Ammonia wafts from his pores. Acid on his breath, the chemical sting of decay, His head lies on her shoulder, but his spirit is drifting away. He’s here with me… isn’t he? She speaks to a shell, a hollow bell that won’t ring. The shoreline’s seen from a distance; Future’s mocking- does it make you cringe? A cruel joke on the horizon, a paradise they can almost touch, But we on land demand a toll, even though they’ve already given too much. Cold bodies at sea. They look closely at the waves, see the colour they turn, They’ve turned into the water, black and blue, a bruised history we refuse to learn. Tossed overboard without a prayer, a heavy splash in the dark, Forgotten at sea. No gravestone, no monument, no marker, no mark. His tangy musk. His decayed smell. His fruity breath. His final gasp. His life slipped through the cracks of her desperate, bleeding grasp. Only remembered by her. She is the vault. She is the shrine. But I listened. [Outro] This story is one of many. It’s an ancient, bleeding script. Repeated throughout the centuries, From a world that’s being stripped. You can find the original version of this poem in my short story “The Running Mill,” published in Future Visions in 2018. Artifix is a project by me, Nolan Yuma. A writer, guiri, actor, irritable c****n, and third culture kid fascinated by cultural psychology. Mostly, I’m born without borders. I took mi primer breath in Santiago de Chile, mijn eerste stap in Antwerp, Belgium, and my first (I’ll leave that to you) in British Columbia, Canada. Artifix is a way for me to salir de las fronteras que impone mi mente. I’ve always wanted to see my poetry turn into music. AI allows me to do that. I won’t call myself a musician, but a poet treading the AI landscape with awe and trepidation. Are you a musician? If so, Suno stole from you. Please listen to these songs as demos, and feel free to create your own songs with my lyrics (just give me a shout-out). By viewing this project as a collaborative art form, I hope I eventually move away from AI and collaborate with real musicians. Album art is progress (without f*****g AI). This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bornwithoutborders.substack.com/subscribe
