No luck on land; we venture out to sea.
Risking poisoning from the toxic waves, we ride,
knowing that if we die, a few hearts might ache,
but few will miss our bony carcasses.
Without the trappings of kings, we can hardly be men;
More akin to vermin, we’ve been left to crawl into oblivion.
But our dreams are lofty, like the undulating waves of the Indian,
ceaselessly inspiring our renewal.
Assuredly we’ll sail, aiming to capture bankable treasure,
or at least a boatswain’s timeliest piece,
presuming we’ll null a legacy of misfortune with a pirate’s haul.
It’s not so impossible and immoral in a capitalist world
long bolstered with ill-gotten wealth.
And though conquerers have come and gone,
so many sought to ram the horn,
we cannot escape their legacy.
Now scattered amongst us, are the residual Lords.
Some who cared to exploit the incense and ebony;
others, to expedite cargo delivery.
Useless Lords and unending wars thus divided us.
And blow by blow, fortune evaded us,
leaving famine to claim clan and forgotten man,
in unnatural dominion.
Yet as surely as lack divides, so it unites,
bringing a luckless shepherd to the roiling seas,
and away from the imaginary lines that shape our misery.
We’ll take to the corridor overflowing with bounty,
each hoping, if not to become wealthy,
to draw attention to their poverty.