I wrote this one for my novel, Lucian of Samosata. In the story, it's sung by an enslaved Spaniard, mourning everything his people lost—their homes, their freedom, their dead—with nothing left to hold onto but the memory.

The salt is on the wound again,
The wind is high and cold,
I've watched the sea become a ghost,
As the story's left untold.

Oh, carry the flame to the water's edge,
(Carry the flame to the edge)
Let the shadows have their say,
(Let the shadows have their say)
For the tide has taken what it wants,
And the morning is far away. (Morning is far away)

I found your coat among the nets,
It smells of rain and brine,
A phantom touch that lingers on,
In this heavy heart of mine.

Oh, carry the flame to the water's edge,
(Carry the flame to the edge)
Let the shadows have their say,
(Let the shadows have their say)
For the tide has taken what it wants,
And the morning is far away.
(Morning is far away)

The light is gone.
The tide is out.