Red moon over black water, salt burning in my eyes. Kings may own the coastline... no king owns the tide. Four oars beat like thunder, a red flag cuts the foam. Every shore can curse my name. The sea still calls me home. Barbarossa! Fire on the sea. Barbarossa! Come and bury me. Blood upon the water, iron in the sand. You can take my body. You will never take the name. Dust rose over Tlemcen. The sun went burning red. A rider crossed the darkness: “Barbarossa is dead.” No. You killed my brother. I picked his name from the dust, still warm inside my hand. His shadow climbed aboard me. His ghost took my command. Now every sail that sees me swears the dead returned. My brother gave me his name. I gave the sea his fire. Barbarossa! Which one? Barbarossa! Dead or alive? One fell beneath the burning sun. One sailed into the night. Two brothers. One shadow. One name the sea remembers: Barbarossa. Barbarossa is dead. Again? Let them think so.
