For Oceanus, who is a Circle

The keel may pass o'er murky grave, 

and none the wiser none the worse

the mainsail snap and cease to wave, 

for naught a blessing nor a curse; 

The yard may break and strand us all

a hundred leagues from nearest shore;

The mists may hide the port of call

and we may miss our chance to moor.

Endeavors come, endeavors go,

and not all ships survive the sea,

But sink or sail you surely know

you are where you are meant to be.

 

In the Hands of the Anemoi

Blowing East and then blowing West, with rage and then a soft caress;.

mocking, absent, in jibe or jest, deceive then callously confess.

Adrift without, and with distressed, consigned we only acquiesce

to drown or thirst in this, our test; the winds blow not to curse or bless.