We sail through a sea of blind rage,
filling our sails with a wind of blind hate.
The crew is tired and the skipper disappoints them by reminding them to trim when they trim,
to prepare to go about when they prepare to go about.
Our morale sinks in the gutter as the spray from the sea soaks us,
Our companionship fades as we shiver in the cold wind.
There is a strong desire for mutiny on deck,
to hang the skipper on the mast with the Genoa line,
to fix him a cross with the spinnaker.
‘Skipper, the crew needs a good word, some good news, some humanity’
And the wind grows stronger,
The waves like a wall approach from every side
surrounding the boat like a ring
for a moment all is quiet and we look at it before we start working the lines,
with our hearts overwhelmed by a sense of doom.
I do not want to drown in these waters.
I do not want to fill my lungs with rage or hate.
But my mind slipped overboard and drifts away,
my hands tie the knot,
my arms winch the struggling body.
