It is cold; sea spray painted the ship white,
light green is the Nordic water
a mighty cocktail of clinking ice cubes.
I scratch a happy face on thick glass on
The porthole, we will dock at a place
where warm people sits around a fire and
give a damn about sailor’s miserable life.
Seascape paintings hang on gilded walls;
look at that sea, so verdant, delicate brush
strokes too; the artist died at a mad house.