Carpathian Forest

Eternally sounds the mighty waves,
A triton's hymn round a rock-strewn grave,
The passing sigh for the bones that moulder,
Over the nordic black sea, where the winds btew colder.
Here in a bed of wrack and shingle,
Beneath rests a sea king of the north,
His fallen history remains unknown,
Now his grave is just a heap of stones.
"The waves crest sharp as an unsheated blade,
As spume-topped breakers shorewards loom,
And boulder on boulder on land is laid,
The triton's hymn round a vanished tomb"
The ocean cradles it's sleepy wave,
Round the curve of the yellow sand.
Of the bleak and mysterious little isle,