Strange pirates, we, who burry our treasure
In the land-locked hollow of a frozen November.
And the preacher's voice, thick with that solemn charm,
Is dizzying in our ears.

Strange pirates, we, who sail without anchor,
Wind-whipped and weary of the salty flavor.
And each swell that beckons with open arms
Is a reckoning to our years.

Strange pirates, we, without pillage or plunder,
Surround ourselves with natural wonders.
Each smile, each laugh, each body warm,
Is a borrowed blessing held dear.

Strange pirates, we, who, when our bodies grow cold,
Call out to all our kindred souls
And ask nothing more than to be remembered
As our memories turn to gold.

And each bell that tolls in a land-locked whenever
Will remind us of treasure for all our years.