On terrace I see city’s lights shine as cold pearls along the bay,
but night sentinels have a duty to shine till the first light of dawn.
Clouds are pushed around but sometimes there is a gap and
moonlight shines through. In the bay, four cargo ships are
anchored, their mast lights are as low hanging bright stars.
Eight o´clock, evening and cooks on each ship are standing on
deck, smoke a cigarette drinking coffee, glad this day is over.
Perhaps they see what I see before going into their cabin
leafing through old newspapers trying not to think of tomorrow.
Cooks on ships are dreamers, neither crew nor officers and
every day they have to try to create something new with hand
and mind, sometimes overwhelmed, and since they never have
a day off, they tend to drink too, yet always do their duty.
A cook can´t articulate his longings or has he awareness to change.
Yet he continues his lonesome, unappreciated quest, because he
is a poet without a pen.
