THE MAST OF THE LAST VOYAGE

I wonder how pretty stars
caress the carpet skies
for the moon so bright,
that seeks poetry fine
from the sailor whose
hat's clad in peacock quill
from the Indian deals
at the harbour streets!

I'm surprised why
the sails clap amidst
the watery winds,
the longing of the sailor
finds way to wine,
songs and fine dine,
yet the voyage ends not.
Is Fate drunk or 
is She too childish?
The winter shall fall,
and our sailor shall call
out names to the sea.
Oh! He shall pose
on the deck:
he calls it the altar
of misfortune,
and shout out:
"The mast shall break
once my voyage ends;
I shall wed
once the moon bends again!"