"Insect who damns me with woman's weaving, you,
Why should I not be defined by my memories; listen:
I was suckled where no sea bloomed, my only view
A prairie bleached, monotonous as moonlight; but when
The mercuries in my begatters' blood burned
And drove them to move, we moved; I remember
The distant salt scent; then, closer, as we turned
The curve of the hills, the sea unfolded; November
Squalls curtained the horizon; the cold
Drizzle and tingle of the salt sea loathed
What I was, what I would jettison behind; that I could
Give praise to cunning and flaming hate that seals the oath
To my besieged sea love; when I acquired power,
I vowed to bring the leveling sea there, then there..., then here..."