I am not a sailor but I’ve come across the seas
Beat the bitter winter in a trembling schooner
Alive is wisdom of ten thousand hands
To put together pieces I’ve held – still remains
Each beating with a magnified flutter
And in each blossoming moment a child began to say:
I want to be your savior, I want to be your slave
Without knowing how the words echoed in the hands
Of ten thousand missionaries
Without knowing how deeply moving the words spoke
Upon the weathered conscience of the aging sailor played
Who cast with two heavy glances a shifting amicable feeling
That led the two together as the rip tide grows
Until at long last they stood erect, like the cenotaph they had created
With tears wetter than any gale
And the sermon echoes true.