You are the wind and I the sail.
Some days you gust full gale,
Driving in the direction of our love.
And I am filled, holding mast with joy.
Other days, days that thankfully grow rarer,
You blow against possibility of our love.
And I must tack to and fro,
Making slow headway towards
The harbor of our joy.
And then there are those days,
Sadder and rarer still,
When I do not hear from you.
And I must lie in a dead still,
Slacked sail holding on
To the dream of promised bliss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem