As a strip of leather worn by constant use
Is flexible; is soft to touch and feel;
Is tough -
He will take the roughest of abuse
And will not cry, Enough.
Weathered by the scoring sting of whip,
The lash of hail while clinging to the mast,
The bitter stuff
That constitutes the life upon a ship -
He will not cry, Enough.
The fever of the sea is in his bones,
His blood which circulates to swing and sway;
But I,
An offspring of the stones
Of Mother Earth, will never go his way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
First class poem. Tan, please send this one to Peter Crowther who is a sea man. Thanks.