|
the boats, the boats, my wooden boats |
|
were never meant to dry |
|
what is a boat that cannot float |
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and rots from air and sky? |
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I nailed a sheet, I named it twice |
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I waited on the spit |
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for wind, for wind, some kind of wind |
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to come and sail with it |
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this is my boat, my favorite boat |
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I built it with my hands |
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and on its shell, my earthly hull |
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I have become a man |
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some are washed and ground ashore |
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and some get thrown by tide |
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but this new world of mold and smell |
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it simply drowns my pride |
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and in the wake, I am awake |
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with no one to take the helm |
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and what I built with labor hard |
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grows still and soft and calm |
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we turn the cheek, we try to hope |
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for boats from other shores |
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and in the end we are alone |
|
who are we to hope for more |
|
some are washed and ground ashore |
|
and some get thrown by tide |
|
but this new world of mold and smell |
|
it simply drowns my pride |
|
the boats, the boats, my wooden boats |
|
were never meant to dry |
|
what is a boat that cannot float |
|
and rots from air and sky? |
