Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Poetry 2019 | Page 44

Alas, one thunderous and frightening night,
pitch-black clouds deprived them all of light.
Their ears were deafened by the wind’s great roar,
chilling all the sailors to their core.
Great bolts of lightning were all they could see
as mammoth waves tossed them with murderous glee.
The rain poured relentlessly upon the ship,
Flooding the sailors up to their hips.
As if things couldn’t get any worse,
a cannon shot and the rail burst.
Harpoons were fired onto the ships.
The evil pirates licked their lips.
Upon their eyes, a demonic light
for death and flesh, or a worthy fight;
for rivers of blood, or the crackle of bones;
for terrified screams and painful moans.
Swords clashed as the ocean churned.
“May the pirates perish and their bodies burn!”
Cheung-Ming’s cry echoed through the night,
heralding the start of a historic fight.
For the great War of The Ships began,
at the signal of the great Cheung-Ming’s hand
Bodies piled up in gruesome mounds.
The seas raged from a cacophony of sound,
of cannons, rifles, and screams alike.
But all fell silent with the thrust of a spike
that pierced young Cheung-ming through the heart,
reaving his body and soul apart.
Even as life drained from his eyes,
the brave captain uttered not a cry.
His shirt soaked through with hot, red blood,
and his head fell still on the filthy mud.
To his demise, the pirates cheered.
They clapped and snarled, and sneered and leered.
Suddenly the ship lurched, tossing all to one side
Cheung-ming curled into a ball as if to hide.
A wave had caused the ship to list,
like it was in the clutches of a giant’s fist.
It was then that Ming made his final stand,
grabbing the pirate leader by the hand.
Ming pulled him in to the ocean deep,
to a watery grave of eternal sleep.