A lonely sail is sadly whitening
Among a mist of sky-blue strait!
What does it search in remote country?
What has it left in native land?
The waves are playing, wind is whistling,
A mast is bent and creaking now...
But luck is not the thing it is needing
And not the thing it should avoid!
As light as azure stream is below,
Gold beam of sun has lied above...
But storm is thing it is asking for,
As if there is peace of enough!