Oh, where does the tide keep such men hid,
Those carved by salt and storm and sin?
With calloused hands and ocean's grin,
To pull me close and drown me in.

I drink my rum and watch the sea,
And wonder if he dreams of me;
A sailor lost, or yet to sail,
Whose heart beats fierce beneath chainmail.

Let him be rough, let him be worn,
By tempests kissed, by battle torn.
Let scars tell tales upon his skin,
Of wars without, of wars within.

For I am weary of dockside boys,
Their painted words, their brittle toys.
I seek the man the sea made wild,
Not some landlocked mother's child.

Come find me where the gulls still cry,
Where blood and thunder bruise the sky.
Drop anchor here, beneath my breast,
And claim this heart, and take your rest.

Until that hour, I drink and pine,
And curse the stars for their design.
But still I watch, and still I wait,
For wind, for sail, for turn of fate.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Scarlatan, in the year 980 AF.