With frigid hands and 

Arms brittle as glass,

He moves the sea to

Reach what he at last 

Has felt he now needs.


No mast, nor flag, nor 

Anchor, only a 

Foggy sextant and 

A stout crow's nest guide

Him and give him speed.


Cast from Mother Earth,

He yearns for his return

To his faint memory

Of what was to be

In vain, he proceeds. 


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