I stand at the deck of a medieval fort,
my eyes wander to the activities on the bay,
with bare hands, shipped wares the labour sort,
the expression on their faces look fray.
Further across in the ocean,
a boat stands alone,
it sways violently with the wave’s motion,
as if the sea intends it to hone.
But the boat carries on as if to defy the mighty water,
it’s movement steadfast,
as if asserting its claim on the tiny quarter,
the weight of the marine crushing it’s mast.
What does the sailor have on his mind?
Does he have a date with the 'End'?
No, it’s not like him to hide behind,
it’s not even a message of his prowess he wants to send.
A life of monotony is not his style;
He says: 'they have not lived, who sit by the aisle'.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a meaningful ink.thought provoking too.liked it.