Strings plucked the waves start to rise
Hear now the tide is set
Feel those waves of gentle seas turn up
feel them harshen those
crystalline ginger ale waves
Those strings plucking,
the violence waves burst out
over the top, hear it smashing into the shore
Waves clash into each other, waves
a second, a third, each hitting one an other
Down the tumults they run.
Back up, their tides unchanging
They smash into each other the sound of
thousand men and women singing in chorus
Then each wave seems to make its own stand its own argument for power
They then raise at each other their voices bellowing out before them

Sudden start, a quick wake,
descending to the bottom of the sea,
the waves over head, strong and steady
perfectly timed movements, controlled by the divine hand.
The waves have wrought forth damage and
now the native ships sink down below those voices
Cries raise from both wave and man,
each with their own pled.
In the end the wave winds and the man
is silenced under the water.
Widows on the shores now lament,
Masses are held, and silently the night continues

Powerful start, as if arming for war,
Screams, anger, passion, for what cause unknown
Celestial angels sing forth, a voice of reason.
Drowned out by the drunken swine
Drowned out by the waves.
Arguing at the angels as if to beseech
woe betide their ill -fared faces
A rule that is not wise.
Those angels still sing over the crowd, stunning them to
silence - stunning them to listen.
Their harps sharp as daggers to the heart
Now the clumpertons see, now
they listen.
They are now in unison with the angels.
A soft end.

Silent and quick,
Slithering along so quickly
snake like in the night
So forth brought now are candles
poetry now recited, dark times to pass
A mass in mass forward moving
Raising their voices up to the heavens
As if to raise the souls of those who have died.
The harmony is broken ere
it continues to raise up still perfect,
How though?
A silence falls and the angels alone sing their
song of so long night and mortal coils,
now may they be carried back home to accompany those dead
their voices and them fade,
only the sweet roses of the music remain
And now the men and women sing the angel song,
Now they send their praise up.
Yet they too fall silently in to the night
only the sweet stench of numbing pain remains from their music.

So endeth the movement.
In one final wave.