O mighty force, child of Poseidon’s rage,
Born in the depths where Triton’s horn does sound,
You rise from the fathoms with thunderous breath,
A storm-crowned titan, shaking the heavens and ground.

Zephyrus bows before your swirling might,
And Aeolus himself loosens your chains,
You tear through the skies on chariots of wrath,
With winds as sharp as Ares’ bloodied reins.

O’er seas you march, a war drum’s steady beat,
Your voice the scream of the forsaken sky,
You rip the tides from Oceanus’ grasp,
And send them forth with chaos in your eye.

You are the fury of Olympus’ court,
The wrath of gods made flesh in rain and flame,
Lightning is your spear, thunder your chariot,
And every shore trembles beneath your name.

What city dares stand proud beneath your gaze?
What mortal walls could ever hope to stay,
When you, the harbinger of ruin’s crown,
Cast all to darkness in a single day?

But lo, amidst your violence, there’s grace—
The dance of clouds, a silent, eerie calm,
An eye of peace in your destructive race,
A fleeting moment in the storm’s cold palm.

So sing, O tempest! Sing your wild song,
For even gods must rage and have their say,
Yet know that, like the fickle winds of fate,
Your strength shall pass, and night give way to day.

And still, the earth will heal from all your scars,
But never shall it forget your name—
For you are more than wind, than rain, than fire—
You are the storm eternal, wild, untamed.