The fortunes of seas and sailors often interchange
There are riddles in the skies of night
Writing windows upon the waves,
Storms boiling from the southern spheres
Pouring rumors through high walls of glass
Clear as a summer day until evening appears
When all that was once is gone until
A break in the weather
The cry of seagulls piercing shrill
Battles of lost years, unknown faces and forms are cast
Into shadowy relief invisibly vague
Like the ghosts they have become in time
Drawn to navigate an ancient rhyme
Pulled from quadrants flung too far to span
For who is there to say what must go and what remain
The fortunes of seas and sailors often interchange...