There is an emptiness after the tempest

When the winds batter the sails no more

The air seems exhausted in its own triumph

Puddles rest stagnant on splintered boards

Count the bodies laying upon the deck

Wondering how the Captain continues to steer

The hull, now crooked where lightning struck

Is hesitant to move away from here

The watery grave has become enticing

Where else do you find solace from a storm?

Wooden planks can one day be repaired

But some bodies will nevermore be warm

Yet the Captain’s heart is in distant lands

In the unexplored crevices of hills and vales

We anchor ourselves to the zeal in his eyes

That cannot be dimmed by a passing gale