Open Your Eyes

by Yilin S, 14

They swim beneath the surface–moving, breathing history

Here before we were, and because of us, soon reduced to a myth in time.
Bodies older than cities, wiser than the names we gave
Carved into maps, but forgotten just as quickly

Their skin carries burdens never meant for them
Propeller scars, plastic, the weight of human convenience on their backs.
Tangled. Rerouted. Forced to migrate
Through empty waters they can no longer name.

Below the waves, a desert of the ambrosia it once was
The rich krill soup reduced to a watery broth
It’s hard to sing when you’re starving,
Composing songs as they travel
Like undersea bards, searching the empty seas for a mate

Here, the loneliest whale in the world sings. 

His family has been turned into corsets and lamp oil, but still he hopes to find her

As a hybrid mutt, his song is neither blue nor fin–no one sings in his key
Yet still, his fractured song travels in a language older than civilization
Even though the only reply to his song is silence

Above the surface, industry redraws the world without their permission.
After all, oceans are measured in profit margins,
As their bloated bodies wash up on shore, we post, but who’s taking action?
It’s all discussed, delayed, rebranded, postponed.
Concern is loud, yet change is optional.

The water looks blue and endless from above
Clean. Calm. Forgiving.
A color so blue it makes destruction easy to ignore.
Underneath is something no one wants to see:
A collapsing system still expected to hold everything,
Over two million lives are treated as expendable,
History is still swimming; still singing; still waiting.
Open your eyes.