There will be a shipwreck
and you will face the stormy sea
and think it may swallow you whole
and the storm take all those 
you have so loved.

But take heart, my love.
Try to see, to remember 
only the best moments,
even if you have wholly
forgotten me.

You will yet live.

I remember it as if it were
yesterday—never mind the seas of time.
Your ship had sailed by then and when
it happened I did not know as I
fled to the forest, alone. Yet,
through the wind's howl
I prevailed and ever,
for whatever reason,
believed in you, 
wanted you
to live

In spite of all the death
and even in moments
that became years 
when I could not
catch my breath.

I would yet live.

Though you had taken everything from me
before you sailed back home, then again
loaded the ship so methodically
and like a captain called his crew,
inspiring them in the way you do...

Still I held you in my heart
and, when I saw the storm 
that came for you, somehow
found the strength to stand
and beg for mercy, admittedly
as much for me as for you.

It was the only hope to keep
any hope alive in me: 
to honor what was also true
which was my love for you.

You will yet speak to Caesar.
You will make it back to Italy
though I may not.

And what of freedom?
What of love?

This I whispered as I drowned
in my own sea of sorrow, lost
to myself. My spirit gave out and birds
flew fast to me and sang me to sleep.

Three days passed and I wailed,
caught up in a nightmare
that was all too real:
the Teacher, gone,
the Child, gone.
You, gone.

I did not want to live
but God did exactly 
what he said he would
and kept me alive too.

I saw your ship sink
and with this my heart sank too
and I retreated to the cave. I did not
know for years whether not only I
but the world had lost you.

All was darkness. All was night.

Though I would not see you, I heard the stories
and my heart found a sliver of something good
in the way you cut loose the precious cargo
and without the light of sun or stars
knowing the ship would be cast
upon some rocky shore, remembered
the light of God in you.

And I rejoiced in the Lord—
always holding on somehow
to this one thing at least 
we still shared.

Look, love, what happened then:
Spain! And all the rains across the plains
mainly were mild. All the rivers ran wild.
You had your moment of triumph
before the bitter end five years
after the storm spit you out
on the distant shore.

The news came to me too late
in that day, in that age, and 
the world did lose you as I had.

And what now of freedom?
What of love?

Here and now we have our Neros
and those who practice treachery,
anarchy, and debauchery, who inflict
acrimony and agony. And there you are,
having survived a storm. I see you
building a proverbial fire, just trying
to rekindle the flame of faith.
No viper that emerges
may harm you.

Rest now, if you must.
Make whatever house you're in
your home and keep the faith, my love.
Your story does not end in this storm.
 
Unhindered by fury or fire
I have no doubt you will rise up
like a lion in my heart. 
And whether you sail again
or take up the pen in this new day,
the dawn of this new era,

There is but one thing 
I wish to know:

What now of freedom?
What of love?