I bear my share of guilt for the injustice
Looming, although we never have discussed this—
I’d rather I might die tonight, than see
Disaster come into proximity.
Upon this ocean, we ride this great craft,
Beneath the stars of night, and feel the draft
Of wind that carries spray into our faces—
Humanity, thou host of grave disgraces!
The course is set—did we perhaps book passage
In premonition of impending wastage?
Lord, I am loath to see, and loath to pray,
But send my words to thee across the spray.