The wind howls through the piercing deluge of the gale,
whose grey mist leaves sun and moon in the veil.
Days weave and lapse as tidal gaps in the memory of the squall,
growing the seed of agony in not knowing when land is to call.
All seems lost in this swarming tempest of Neptune’s making,
wishing it was only but a nightmarish dream near to waking.
So when again I sight harbor, dock, and dry land,
I will from hence forth and forever more, to the sea be banned.
If I dare to try, clamp my hands to iron and reject my thirst,
for the pain of this gale will, with time, be well versed.
Then in ages to come, when all who now live have passed,
the story of this great tempest of the sea will, through me, last.