I'm looking into a picture of a turbulent stormy sea,
And imagining I am battling against its wild fury.
The winds are whipping cruelly around the boat I sail,
Lashing it with salt spray, hurricane and gale.
The waves are rising skywards, fifty feet or more,
And I can hardly see at all, in this violent downpour,
Clouds are dark and heavy, rumblings can be heard,
But in the midst of this cacophony, I spy no living bird.
It's as if the world is angry, stirring up a fearful fight,
I try to hold the craft on course, struggling in my plight,
The ocean is never static, it is restess all the while,
Forever in perpetual motion, and constantly hostile.
I stand back now from the image, of power uncontrolled,
The painter creates a vision that's forceful, strong and bold,
He has captured all the terror, the brutality of the deep,
In just a few deft brush strokes, this drama begins to seep.
Into my mind, and whilst dreaming, a fantasy can start,
About being heroic and daring, fearless, brave and smart.
Such a confrontation here, between me and the water's rage,
Thinking I could possibly, such ill humour, thus assuage.
But I know I would wait forever to see calmness in this scene,
For it is a painting, sealed in time, and could never be serene.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem