Song of The Selkie-Wives

Unlucky, our solemn sisterhood, that we could lose what long empowered our seals’ soul. Lost, in all likelihood durably for t’would be devoured by despair for mirthful memory of endless sea flowing everywhere. No prayer can save such devotees as we with our stolen selkie-wear. From golden shores in nymph's nurseries where we played and bathed for fishermen who stole our skins, now we’re refugees of the sea, that to them be beholden. Pleased to be brides in the beginning, for flings and romantic rendezvous— yet to view there’d be no homecoming— naïve dreams of dauntless derring-do. With seal-skin’s locked beyond bailiwick, we were tricked into dark domiciles. Trained to be wives, ideal domestics, far from home on slick swells empyreal. Now we dream of sea-lore longingly, though this be our lot—victims evermore. Was it blind chance, or dark destiny bound we so, home to know nevermore? Wives of the green isle, we selkie-brides, daughters of the tides, rue reconciled. We were wild there, free and dignified, stripped of our hides we remain immobile. Sing we our song, sorrow suffering, sing we of seas rolling endlessly. Sing we, selkie-wives, in forewarning to our seal sisters, of The Unlucky