The radar swept a steady green, then blinked into the black,
A silver bird upon the wind that never doubled back.
\"Good night,\" the final signals said, a calm and quiet plea,
Before the ghost of Three-Seven-Zero turned towards the sea.
No distress call broke the air, no fire lit the sky,
Just a phantom arc across the stars as hours drifted by.
It slipped beyond the northern reach, where maps and borders cease,
To seek the Indian Ocean’s dark and terrifying peace.
For eleven years the tides have kept what fell beneath the foam,
A crypt of steel and secrets far from any shore or home.
The albatross alone knows where the heavy engines sleep,
Wrapped in the crushing, cold embrace of the abyssal deep.
But now the ships set out again to scour the ocean floor,
To wake the truth that lies within the Seventh Arc once more.
Though waters hold their buried distinct silence, deep and gray,
We chase the echo of a flight that simply flew away.
Is it a Bermuda triangle mystery?!