No soil covers their resting place. No crosses mark their names. Beneath the endless, shifting waters, they sleep — the sailors who gave their lives to the sea.

There are no fields of poppies for them, no rows of white marble stones to tell their stories. Only the restless ocean, moving forever above them, a grave without boundaries and a memorial without walls.

This image — black and white, silent, eternal — captures that truth. Along the edge of a great warship, a line of sailors stands in solemn formation. Their uniforms are crisp, their hands steady as they hold folded flags over the water. Below them, the waves rise and fall, indifferent yet eternal, mirroring the heartbeat of a world that still grieves.

It is a burial at sea — one of the oldest and most sacred of naval traditions. There is no church, no organ, no procession. Only the sound of the wind through rigging, the creak of steel, and the whisper of waves against the hull. As the chaplain speaks the final words, every man aboard stands still, their eyes cast toward the horizon — the only grave marker their fallen brothers will ever have.

When the moment comes, the flags are lowered. The sea receives her own.

A weight hits the water — soft, final, and strangely peaceful. The surface breaks for a heartbeat, then smooths itself again, as if embracing what has been given back. The waves take them gently, carrying them into the deep, where sunlight fades and silence reigns.

There are those who say it is cruel — that there should be a place to visit, a monument to touch. But for those who have known the ocean, it is fitting. The sea that tested them, held them, and sometimes took them, now keeps them forever.

The poem reads:

In ocean waters no poppies blow,
No crosses stand in ordered row.
There young hearts sleep beneath the wave,
The spirited, the good, the brave.

It speaks not of loss alone, but of continuity. The sea is alive — and in its motion, they are never still. With every tide, they rise again. With every dawn, their memory glows beneath the surface. The stars above keep watch, the winds carry their names, and the waves march on — white, endless, tireless.

For those left behind — mothers, wives, children — there is a strange comfort in this. They cannot kneel on a patch of grass or place flowers on a stone. But they can stand before the ocean, feel its breath against their skin, and whisper a prayer. Somewhere beneath those waves, their loved one hears. Somewhere in that eternal rhythm, the sea whispers back: I remember.

The ocean does not forget.

And when their own time comes — when life’s final voyage is done — perhaps they too will meet again at what sailors call the Captain’s Mast, that place beyond the horizon where duty ends and home begins.

Because those who chose the sea never truly leave it. It becomes part of them, and they part of it — eternal, infinite, and at peace.

So, as the ship sails on and the flags are folded once more, the waves keep their promise. They rise and fall, carrying memory like a hymn.

In waters deep, no one lies forgotten.