The ever-searching beam from the lighthouse tower
Betrayed the depth of the widowed hermit's lament.
It shone on darkened waves, hour after hour,
Reminding him of death, which he could not prevent.
His monkish solitude was nothing so righteous;
The crashing shoals were her cries reverberated,
Cursing him for behaviors less than courageous.
His penance was nothing to be celebrated.
He suffered his sins in an unbroken silence,
A prisoner for whom there would be no trial:
Neither man nor God could justify his violence.
She was gone forever—he feigned no denial.
He stared unblinking at the beacon's blinding light:
A warning to those who have not yet lost their sight.