| Heave ho, farewell to the quay! |
| Merry sailors, sailors
|
| We!
|
| The horizon is our proscenium! |
| Our dead will come to know
|
| The sea
|
| Our cook is a wanted man, 1000 thalers for each hand
|
| Our captain lost his good sense, driven by a Lazarus'
|
| Words
|
| Have you not been told of Lazarus? |
| He felt the icy grip
|
| Brought back by a morphine drip, he told the captain
|
| This:
|
| Tragedy, tragedy! |
| Death has you fooled!
|
| No throne of bone, no terranean pool!
|
| No scythe, no cowl, no skeleton
|
| His greatest trophy is this myth
|
| Every sailor, salmon, every carp will follow rivers to
|
| The source
|
| Only the dead will know the course, and furthermore…
|
| Do you really want to know of the afterworld? |