Out in the deep where seafarers dare,
Entombed in blankets of ghostly steel,
Out in the deep where goblins dance,
And headless horsemen mount their steeds,
Where the Godless howl through the night
‘Til morning comes through the air be stilled.
Harbors with their smiles and extended arms,
Not heard or seen by the eyes of the unholy,
As Misty Island sits alone in her private hell.
As fishermen gather at the pub by the shore,
Stories of her treachery are passed around.
“She’s the devil cast into the sea.”
“She steers the ships into her jagged rocks.”
“She laughs at the sound of twisted steel.”
The drunker they get,
The more the stories grow.
Maybe she is of kindness and congeniality.
Maybe her shores are of powdery white sand.
Maybe she is the answer to a Utopian dream.
Maybe the fishes jump into the boats.
Maybe she is a new heaven made of fertile soil,
With vegetables, flowers and endless vineyards.
Maybe she is what the fishermen dream about;
What they wish their life to be on shore.