Like the barrage and onslaught of a tempest storm
Your words leave me battered, broken, bleeding and torn
I have become the ghost ship, empty, tattered and worn.
My sigil will fly at half mast tonight
In the morning everything will be put to right,
I have weathered the storm, your nature and might
To mourn my losses will mean defeat
You left me no chance to flee or retreat
And so I call the drums to strike the beat.
No white flag will mount my mast,
I will fight to the very last
To the end I will stand fast.
Even the Ghost Ship, in its own way, has it's victory,
As time and tale, gossip and hope make it legendary
Cloaked in darkness, it remains forever, a mystery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem