Those days have passed
when my sport was to be tossed upon the waves,
dark hair and weathered skin
and hand firm at the helm.
From the sand
your music takes a formless tone,
and your rhythm has lost meaning.
My weather-beaten boat
hops harbor to harbor no more.
Oh boundless water-dream,
you once spoke thunder.
Do you weep, too, for sailors
landlocked by blunder?
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