The Seafarer [Remix]

Sitting upon broken waves he feels
Torn upon the waves of society and his soul.
It calls to him.
It beckons him, towards the salty air, towards the feather chorus.
He feels nothing else.
"No passion for women, no worldly pleasures,
Nothing, only the ocean's heave;"
The wind cries with sorrowful needs
Echoing the pleas his soul mourns.
The land only wonders of this calling:
"Who could understand,
in ignorant ease, what we others suffer
as the paths of exile stretch endlessly on?"
And yet, he pulls towards the calling.
His wyrd is determined, only to be stretched or shortened by the three:
"...illness, or age, or an enemy's
Sword, snatching the life from his soul."
The calling comes with the loss of familiarity.
There are no kings, no kinsmen, no wonderful things--
"...those pleasures are dead."
The calling of nature dies, and the weak continue,
and the world spins on "Kept spinning by toil."
The gold tarnishes with the images of the men who molded it.
Their glory passes away, faded in the toil hurricane.
His soul feels no pain,
only the calling, of the Lord's wishes.
No worldly pleasures could shake His wrath
paining those who have sinned on earth.
"Death leaps at the fools who forget their God."
His humility of his waves keeps him with the angels.
Fate is the soul's hand
pushing it to the waves of the sea.
The waves of his wyrd,
the waves of his Lord:
"Praise the Holy Grace of Him who honored us, Eternal, unchanging creator of earth. Amen."