Across a ragged waste
of wind-racked rocky shore,
the waves of twilight's tide
that surge and sink and roar.
Our vessel plies the waters
from the harbor's corridor
as we glide the rushing currents
that sweep the ocean's floor.
Toward the burned-out skies of sunset,
by the salt-sea's wind of mist,
'cross the blackened brine of silence,
where the night skies weave their nest.
Three months ahead the voyage,
to the Indies westward-bound,
to the sunset's final kingdom,
once again we'll tread the ground.
And we lift our eyes to heaven
for its grace to guide our way
through all tempests that may toss us,
lest our journey go astray.
In the evenings we lay listening
to the song that the sailor sings
as he sits his lonely vigil
with his ringing mandolin.