There used to be a place here in the dunes
A natural port where ships would anchor,
Now reed welters the drunkards’ walk.
The moon is the sail, and the crows on board
Talk sailors’ slang while the night owl listens
To the shanties sung for those who are lost.
Once the drunkards roamed back to their vessels,
Their arms reaching out branches, their shoulders
To their shoulders, while singing they faded.
Sand blew over and covered to forget
But the crows’ offspring will still imitate
The mates and the captains singing at night.