Upon my barque, I brave a foreign sea,
and feel the foam that falls like mountain snow.
Would one not paint my roaming soul as free?
I must confess it hurts, for I must go
and leave my patient maid who waits for me
across the sea – on fairer rolling hills.
In Summer sun she shades beneath the trees
and dreams of all the ways we shared our thrills.
But I shall not despair when I’m away.
She holds the string that links me to the ground.
And though I flit and fly I always stay
within her grasp, as my strings wrap around
her steady hand. Why should the sailor cry?
The star he loves still twinkles in his eye.
© 2023 Christian Müller
Image source: freepik.com