Breaker, Breaker, Breaker

Thrash, thrash, and thrash against the shore

Gentle strokes, Edge of mile sand

Returning sand, His feather creatures treading little feet—after the receding tides, He who watches the returning waterfowls day after day to chase the laughers away

Was that not His Grace?

Oh haven't I meet His Grace.

In amidst way, I am of His gaze.