The Storm

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The rudder breaks, the sails are ripped, the roar
Of waters mingles with the ominous sound
Of pumps and panic voices; all around
Torn ropes. The sun sets red, we hope no more -
The tempest howls in triumph; from the shore
Where wet cliffs rising tier on tier surround
The ocean chaos, death advances, bound
To carry ramparts broken long before,
One man has swooned, one wrings his hands ,one sinks
Upon his friends, embracing them. Some say
a prayer to death that it may pass them by.
One traveller sits apart and sadly thinks:
,,Happy the man who faints or who can pray
Or has a friend to whom to say goodbye."

© Adam Mickiewicz