damosIllustrated by Minji Reem

Within the Captain’s cabin warm,
The crew awaits the orders new;
We pirates round the table swarm,
As Sockeye’s tools his map review.
At times out past the ship he’d glance,
While marking points into his book,
Most likely plotting our stance,
To chart a passage better took.

At last he sets the compass back,
And places, too, his quill aside,
As Damos slowly scans the track,
Attempting his concern to hide.
“The seasons have us at a loss,
For in this warmth the winds are strong,
And by their whims our ship they’ll toss,
Be ready for a voyage long.

“But wipe the fear from faces thine,
For we are Spartans of the Seas!
Upon Poseidon’s bluest shrine,
We bring our foes unto their knees!
Instead, dear Morgan, spread the sails,
And, Lawrence, ten degrees to port!”
The sail ropes freed from off their nails,
The ship raced off with wind support.

While gripping tight the steering wheel,
The helmsman Lawrence fights the waves,
For in his hands he seems to feel,
How strangely rough the Sea behaves.
Now from the depths a dimness grows,
In mist and gusts our ship immersed,
And each aboard the Phoebe knows,
That by the Sea, the ship is cursed…

A fortnight on, still grim it stays,
Poor Lawrence seeks the sky in vain,
For Candia’s lighthouse far I gaze,
By now it’s due in vision plain.
Yet blinding smoke soon fills the air,
And water round us crimson dyes,
I spy through mist a glowing flare,
Ahead, in flames, all Candia lies!