Omen

By Szabo Eduard Dragomir

Roaring monsters with snarling mouths so foamy,

And their coats smelt in the black of ebony
Regard with curiosity, the presence
Of a lonely vessels disappearance
Upon the endlessness of the waves
During a wrathful storms lashing gaze.

The storm is bewitching; its demonic might

Guides the wicked moons lugubrious green light.
Cruising amidst the dunes of liquid soil
Bears present the captains ravaging toil
To escape this perilous storms eye
That haunts the trident thrusting, dark, sky.

Suddenly, came the serenades of the void

And the captain, over the waves destroyed,
Noticed the green light by the moon enticed
And felt the horrors of this ghastly sight:
Neath the macabre glare of the moon,
Came the blood-curdling portent of gloom.

From the glass floor of now wave-less ebony

Rose a giant of the eighteenth century:

A corpse without a flesh or purpose,

With somber sails weaved out damned serpent scales.
Like a raven circling a carcasse,
It joined the midnights dreary canvas.

The Flying Dutchman the captain thought in fear.

His eyes and mind, by the awful sight were seared,
As he awakened back into the storm,
Left to wrestle the monsters it performs.
He knew full well that his end draws soon
For the sighting is a portent of doom.