The Eight in Seventy Two

Ploddingly it took the form
Of some dispassionate melody
Our wailing voices at crescendo
For our undying we mourn

With care they traipsed the deck
A mass of notions in mind
Did ten artlessly disappear
or were held by the Atlantic's inside?

Still we stood and tried to inform
Searchers of our malady
That we living men hitherto
can presently not be seen

Still we stand on Mary's deck
To us the world is blind
As they neither see nor hear
our gestures nor our cries

Not all can be explained
Not all can we fathom
Some presences can't be felt
like the eight in seventy two