Elderly Assol embroiders. She hunched over her handiwork with care
And barely glances at the carmine sunset spilling over the sea;
Just awkwardly pokes the needle through linen, arthritic fingers are shaking there—
Tentacles intertwine with seaweed and flicker endlessly.
She lifts her head, at last, as a darkened brigantine drifts near,
And nods to herself, slow and calm, as if time stood still.
She tosses one last branch in the sooty stove—for no reason there—
Then she heads for the sea, her juniper cane pressing deep where the earth is chill.
She climbs aboard and hugs an old friend with quiet delight:
“Well then, let’s go,—she says quietly,—twenty thousand leagues to run.”
She grins, silver teeth catching rising full moon’s light:
“You know, I still want to see if much-vaunted R’lyeh is truly the dreadful one.”
2025.07.12