Movement I
The Suffering
A sailor bends above a cup
Of water stale and grey,
And slow, without a single sound,
He works a tooth away.
He holds it on his calloused palm,
And wonders what it means;
No pain is in the loosened gum—
Just bruises and machines
Of winter's iron, steady beat,
Where beatings never cease,
Where rations dwindle to the bone
And bring no sign of peace.
The prizes vanished months ago,
The barrels scraped and dry,
And down within the Southern Seas
The weeks and seasons die.
Through Roaring Forties, wind-abused,
And down to Fifties dread,
Past Screaming Sixties where the air
Is biting cold and dead,
Beneath the freezing, black abyss,
Where zero strips the breath,
A storm is brewing in the hold—
A darker thing than death.
Movement II
The Crier
The private rot begins to sour,
The quiet bruises swell,
The crier straightens from the bilge
To ring the mutiny's bell:
“What fate is meant to be our own,
If freedom is so free?
And who is left to guide the ship
If we must bend the knee?
Not us! Not us!” the voices cry,
As whitecaps churn the foam,
And whispers turn to thunderous shouts
Far from any home.
A holy vengeance wakes the dead
For one who slipped away,
Back when the barrels brimmed with rum
And skies were bright and gay—
When men would sing and drink aloud
Instead of curse and mourn:
“I hope you never face the sea
Where law and life are torn.
For crimes against humanity,
Indecency, and dread,
Indifference and indecision
Will serve instead.”