The ship, crippled by wind,
limps into the harbour of the mind
bathed in lustreless magic of a phosphorescent sea
that has battered its hull for half a century
as, in my dreams, I have watched it depart,
laden with longings and false starts,
unshackled by knowledge
in search of the far world’s edge.
In awe of their oceans, daily I sail
through the huge storms of their travail
beneath the wings of albatross
or angel under the Southern Cross.
My stars were not theirs to see
and their longings not my captivity
as I wave us God speed each day from the quay.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem