At the bay of a gardening state
Flowers grow on rocks not cognate
Crevices crown each gray sea plate
Inland fires here ultimately retire
It’s not surprising
As the day is rising,
For me to see blue horizon
But no land is ever higher
Not like tubes traversing skies, the sea windows sight:
The world is a line and its reflected light
Lets sea find land’s green and brown cloudy plight
Not of the land -- but from it -- things seem dire.
Tomorrow if the north wind blow
And the crew all man their posts and row
The tides will flow and we will go
Away to the lands that we desire
Hold on, hold tight! Grab the mast and grasp fast
A storm comes with speeds not by this ship passed
Our only coast trails, not the land but eddys last
The wind on the sails plays like phantom pluck’d lyre
Row by the lights of the north star
Those white plains cannot be far
And all the lands will be ours
And victory will be sung by the choir
Yet dreams unfairly inflate present reality
Exchanging what is for what has already found fatality
The softest and most warm: our sleepy maladies
And the world loses itself, becoming a figment entire
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