Transit Poem by Hendrik Rost

The coastline disappears
in our wake, while
the visual horizon keeps
its distance. Water, I understand,
as the ropes are undone,
cannot be grasped -

the passengers from Vineta
hang out in the bar.
Without some interest in the journey
life is but transit.
Feeling sick from the rocking,
one meets at the railings.

If a body lacks terra firma,
the senses take leave.
Too many old things wear us out,
new things are stressful,
and one feeds the seagulls
with the proximity to land

for which one begs the horizon.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock