Though another day passes,
once having arrived,
cinnamon sunny
with a misguided preaching
from a catholic church,

I recall our gorgeous
misty evening
right by the waves
from yesterday
and its one peculiar
moment:
my dad pointed to
a far away regatta
sailing in
a distance
whilst standing to my
right and asked
me not quoting

“Do you know why
I wanted to go
to the sea?
The vastness of that body,
no endings in infinity,
no one to tell me
what to do,
and once you sailed away
from the harbour
it was just
it
living.

Whilst I was on my night shift
at the very front
of the ship
on my ever first voyage
by sea,
heading to
England from Gdynia,
I felt as if I
was the very first
man to discover the oncoming
land,
like Cristopher Columbus
with his dear Santa María
breaking the waves”.

Yes, Dad.
I would add,
settled in my question

“Why do I long somehow
in smaller
or bigger
ways too at
times for that
aforementioned harbour
and otherness with so many
sounds, details,
lights and
dancing dangerous like
knives in a tavern
thrown?
For so similar
yet
so privately schemed
departures I paint?”,

I would answer
without Brain,
even if it would be solely
in perfect, dreamy way
sketched:

“Because there is
some greater and
truer breath
of mine held out
by a foreign hand
or by standing lonely
from the other mirror’s side
in front of some tremendous
waves of Kanagawa,
hugging itself small
yet with fearless Child’s
patience, like
the Young Verter
on his painting.
Some more abstract
and
breathtaking
with charisma image
of me there
stands, flowing
instead of walking,
through called aisles.
Beige coat into the
blue falling.

The No Man’s Skies
and Lands
(or yet
Of Some Men)
to be felt with all
the body and
upraising in all hues
and minute sacrifices
in speechless
wonders,
like lagoon’s turquoise
water that would shine
in a cave’s dark
with krill dancing.”

Some upholdings,
some blind images
and all rest
fresh,
windy,
dark
and light with grey
whose voicing
I cannot make,
not just to keep
it in immaculation
to stay non-maimed.

Tss
Ouch.
The Missing.

El,
ese,
acantilado.

I am not a sailor.
I desire to run.
Confine me not to a puddle dependent on the wind.
Direct me to the forest, the hills, and I will create my own draft,
as I speed across the ground,
flying over earth to distances greater than the confines of your wet berth.
No, I relish a solid state of matter beneath my feet.
I am a fire sign.
Warning: do not get wet.

life is a voyage across the sea.
you may end up in a storm.
you try to control your ship
when you hear the siren
taunting you with promises.

"you don't need to face this."
"there's an easy way out."
"you can give up."
"let the wind take you."
"what's the point of this?"

those promises are weightless.
you know the siren will lead you
into what seems like your paradise,
then throw you off the ship
and leave you to the sharks.

even as that voice tempts you,
listen to the hopeful voice inside you,
the one that reminds you of your power.
"it may be difficult right now,
but this storm won't last forever."

you can then adjust your sails,
tell your crew what you need,
and safely get through the storm's eye.
when you get through, the storm fades.
the sunshine warms you up, and you sail.

Departure!

Raise the anchor
and raise the sail
Now the wind blows

Two compasses
inside of me
turn their lights on

The first one tells
where to go
by private signals

The second one
interprets the stories
from the sun, stars, sea, and the wind

Decoding the two 
from inner voice
and from the world

I decide
to turn the prow
adventure is there

How big the sea
Can't resist
the wind and waves in front

By drifting
and grounding
learned from the past

But being friends
with wind and waves
weaving own rhythm

New route appears
in each moment
to an unknown world

Seeing the land
lower the sail
and descend the anchor

Earth fertilises
the sailor's soul
to go back to the sea