| A black shape sits on a deck in a red glistening puddle,
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| Sobbing and shaking, curled up in a huddle.
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| The shape of a man amidst silence and slaughter,
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| Clothes torn and drenched in blood and salt water.
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| «His fortune to dust, his fortune to dust!
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| His triumph in vain, his triumph in vain!
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| Riches to ashes! |
| His tears lost in rain!»
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| A ship made of mist like quicksilver thread.
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| This skeleton vessel sings songs for the dead.
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| To take a deep breath and set his mind back in motion,
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| He stumbles upright and fumbles to the prow.
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| His eyes now closed to hear his dear ocean,
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| He feels the world has altered somehow.
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| Deafening silence, the ocean seems gone.
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| Hardly a whisper nor notes of wind song
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| «His fortune to dust, his fortune to dust!
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| His triumph in vain, his triumph in vain!
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| Riches to ashes! |
| His tears lost in rain!»
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| In a final attempt to end this bitter roam,
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| He looks at the stars with their comforting glare.
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| But the lights above that once guided him home,
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| Scattered and shattered, are no longer there.
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| Now dawning upon him like rays of the sun,
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| His state and fate cannot be undone.
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| The captain now trapped on this skeleton vessel,
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| Adrift on the void in a black floating castle.
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| Chained to a twilight and bound to his boat,
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| Swearing his vengeance on others afloat.
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| Lights at the end that have the world in their grip.
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| He shall have his conquest
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| As Death Came Through a Phantom Ship! |