Destination: Distant

Distant sands are whispering unrestrained,
   It is my fate to face the breach, we three
      sail; Nina, Pinta, and my Saint Marie,
         To where the future waits to be released,
            Agnostic, I, to fame or legacy,
               Nay-sayers still rebuke my global folly:
                 To prove what ne’er before was thought to be.

Photo Friday: Distant

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