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