Softly sings the pretty gull as it drinks of the blood of the drowned mariner. Can you absolve me of my sins? Verily, the blood is on my hands, and no amount of washing shall remove it. I hear screaming. Why? Mother, why do you scream? Why is your pretty white neck so torn, mother? The blood, so much blood, it trickles down the stairs. I gather it, and rub my hands, wondering why it's so hot. Why mother? Why do the echoes of your screams reverberate still? I can hear those men, mother, tearing, cutting, ending. Why, mother? Can their knives ever be parted from your delicate flesh?
