From where I stand the world is sea,
this isle a boat that doesn’t move,
and now and then some seagulls come
to tell us of how life goes on
over the edge that splits
the water from the sky.
Their mournful screams keep us in place.
From where I stand the sea is world,
I’m on a boat that is an island.
At times when air is clear
I watch a bit of world across the water:
some windmills show, churches emerging
all pale and trembling, not sure of their shape.
From where I stand the world looks an illusion,
where birds escape from every now and then
to tell us that it is not better elsewhere either.
From where I stand I know the world is sea,
but from your point of view this merely is an island.