Just beneath the surface are hidden treasures.
Silver spoons stained with blood and rust,
tell a complex unguessable web of a tale. 
Imagine, two hundred year old babes 
sipping from this filthy thing you found in the forest.

Lost to my grasp, my memory, my mind,
a hundred thousand puffs of cigar smoke.
a grandfather of a hundred daughters,
lost to the ages, yearning, yet so entirely forgotten. 
Lost to the impenetrable waves of time.

Just behind the tide are hidden horrors.
Who is that maiden drowned some millenia ago,
her pockets filled with pebbles and memories.
Her dress, embroidered by a shaking hand,
was torn by a cruel one. 

Lost to my eyes, my ears, my own hand,
is her angel hair, her sunken eyes, her fluted fingers. 
is the watch she wore at her breast, given by a hundred mothers,
forgotten in a blur of tears so all encompassing. 
Lost to the fickle fields of Asphodel 

Just behind his eyes is hidden history.
the blue green brown lines of his face tell of another time.
the scars of age which mark his father's face, his grandmother's house.
These not quite healed wounds and not quite forgotten beauties,
will soon take their place, under the silt, as relics.