The clock had just struck midnight, and the world whispered mournfully as if lamenting the tragedy unfolding upon its surface. Where once stood proud cities bustling with the cacophony of daily life, now lie silent aquatic graves, shrouded in the deathly quiet of the high tides’ relentless ascent. It is a scene of eerie beauty, a world where the lapping of the waves serves as a constant reminder of nature’s indifferent claim.
It is here, at the edge of the relentless sea, where one can hear the cry of the high tides. A sound that is not heard, but felt—a vibration through the soles of your feet as you stand upon the waterlogged remnants of civilization. It tells a bitter tale of times ignored, of warnings unheeded.
The cry is not a new phenomenon. It is ancient—as old as the ocean itself. But it has grown louder, more insistent, in recent years. Scientists have ventured explanations, pointing fingers at the engorged currents further aggravated by polar ice melt. Yet, the truth is simple and stark: we are bearing witness to the outcome of our own environmental neglect.
Consider Venice, the floating city of reverie and romance, where gondoliers once sang under the moonlight. Now, it’s a sunken tomb for a culture claimed by the tide. Times Square has become an underwater stage, where the screens and billboards once ablaze with life are dimmed, obscured by the murky embrace of the Atlantic. And let us not forget about the Parisian streets, where the waters have insidiously crept over cafes and bookshops, whispering secrets of a lost world to the few who dare listen.
These are not scenes from a dystopian novel. They are real, as real as the listless drift of debris that was once someone’s livelihood or heirloom. They are the signs of the stilled pulse of urbanity that once throbbed with pulsating vigour. We have entered an age where the monuments of human achievement are submerged and silenced—an age marked by the cry of the high tides.
What caused such a monstrous transformation? It was the rise, the incessant and inexorable rise of our seas—meter by creeping meter. As glaciers continued their mournful retreat and ice caps submitted to the sun, the waters rose to reclaim. Reclaim the shores we arrogantly assumed as ours, the lands we built upon with impunity, with no regard for the fragility of nature’s balance.
But let us focus not on what once was, but on what is, on the legacy left to us by a civilization too caught up in the now to worry about next. Our coastal metropolises are adapting — or rather, they are being forced to adapt. New waterways carve through our streets, and the architecture of survival forces upon us a reflection of the choices that led us here. Our present is defined by the consequences of our past actions.
As the waters rise, they do not discriminate. They wash over the pauper’s hovel and the billionaire’s penthouse alike. Wealth and status once bought luxury, now they can merely postpone the inevitable. The cry of the high tides pays homage to no man’s ego. It is a democratizer that respects only the laws of physics and the brutal truth of displaced millions searching for a foothold in a drowning world.
But, dear reader, the cry of the high tides is more than just a dirge for days gone by. It is a clamor for action, a rallying scream in the night that begs not for hope — for that ship has sailed and sunk — but for resolve. The tides rise, impervious to our pleas for clemency, as indifferent to our fate as they are to the empires we have lost to their depths. Yet even within this bleak horizon, there lies a choice.
Do we succumb to the cry or do we listen and learn? Do we accept this watery grave as the final resting place for our cultural relics, or do we strive, even now, to etch a different future on the water’s surface? It is a daunting endeavor, a task that seems beyond the reach of our sunken dreams.
The cry of the high tides will continue to sound its warning. Will we continue to ignore it as we’ve done before, or will we finally hear its call? The sea awaits your answer.