A many-colored vessel
is the ship at our helm.
Surging, carries all
to where none can tell.
First hard to starboard
then harder to port,
she leads back and forth, her movements each short.
“Hoist the mainsail,
for here’s a strong wind!”
Yet the gasps she captures are narrow and thin.
“Lower the anchor,
we’ve struck a fine beach!”
But all that she’s found is a sharp coral reef.
She sails clasped, in irons,
a slave to her struggles,
a beautiful ship made mostly of dunsels.
She’ll never reach land,
she’ll gybe evermore,
as mutinies displace what the crew searches for.
There’s one sailing straight
with stern to wind true,
that one day will shore on plenteous lands new.
Headwind nor reef
are left in its wake.
Follow it now, this sea to escape.
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