When you are lost a sea, in its vast blueness.
No food, water or other help,
Hope is all that remains;
In assuming the shape of some sunken ship’s lumber:
A rotted, buoyant timber,
That comes floating toward you upon the waves:
A monotonous, unending sameness,
Its mundane but dangerous salt-sea water,
It is in the shape of a ship’s mast, this cross;
Like the lingering iron beams from the towers.
This crucifix that you cling onto,
Heave yourself over,
Wrap your arms around
And praying, like Noah,
That it take you to land
Or some such safe Harbor…
(9.9.7)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This was enjoyable to read John! A (10) ! ! Thad