The ship extended huge, outside the dew,
his past, he thought, conducted on her track,
across the board, the skyline folded dark,
- a stork he was or member of the crew?
Thus, curiously stood upon the moors,
an epitome of time to e'er rejoice,
but stern, the sea-waves' hum repressed his voice,
or was the dusk that realness allures?
Upon the moors he stood, irresolute,
side-gazing for the sunken to discern
meanwhile the seamen deftness and concern
applied the coloring of nightly soot.
The dusk abraded, thus, the ship's details;
all shapes in numbness stood; without a word
the nighttime, condescending, linked the bird
with time's perseverance, head-ropes and brails.
The boats, directed randomly to trip,
loose wooden cradle-coffins in the bay,
surreal, formed a definite array,
where timely margins, undulating, reap.
(Their sacrosanct ascent designed the stairs,
for spotless angel forms to fly in blue,
the stork recalls the one-time rendezvous,
- this nightly ship, shall take his soul to fares.
Perchance they fled to skies - two passing glows
that cut through distances, in ardent Spring
a song for wanderers, harmonic link,
- pure emeralds the shoreline noon bestows.)
What foolishness of storks invites the ship,
our lives to marry on the silent quays
meanwhile four smoking ebon funnels praise
our wraiths' long flight on everlasting trip?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem