This old ship rode the Atlantic swells like
a swan in a pond and her crew where dead,
perhaps not at the time, but they are now,
generations of sailors boarding her, using
her as a place of sanctuary on their way to
a destination unknown to them.
And one by one, overcome by life they died
and drifted on the sea of broken life- belts to
the Saragossa where mist of sorrow covers
the bleak shoreline of ruin and the ship
that rust on a reef; and the seamen were dead
perhaps not at the time, but they are now,
in my mind they are a sepia damaged photo
of forgotten moments.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem