With the earth for support, we are ready to leave When the tide is high and saltsís in the air, And the hour has long beeen appointed. We are lulled by the sea, rocking gently to sleep Wayward children in their motherís care. The waves will toil in the sweat of their brow, Slashing to ribbons the sides of our vessel, Our patient engines will make the months grow From the rhythm of the quietest seconds. There is only smooth water around, what bliss! Not a soul for miles around, whole miles... Grown used to being rocked to sleep like this, Getting used to the comfort of homes takes a while. We work with no days off here, no evening out. At sea weíve plenty of things to do, less devious. We forget the girlfriends who care for us - The ones we donít always care about - May these sins of omission be forgiven us! No, not true! We pine for them on the orlop, In our dreams their names begin to unroll. Here what weíre after isnít some trollop, Not some happiness, only the fish shoal. There is only smooth water around, what bliss! Neither fences nor walls, room enough to go dancing! Being used to being lulled to sleep like this, Growing used to the comfort of home gets taxing. Some will say we are after the money it pays. Anyhow, this isnít the place for rich pickings. We are after the sea for the sake of the waves Which we never forget years later.   When arriving from elsewhereís alien spring, We are headed for the battered old pier, The gates of the nation swing open to bring Each sailor to his native here. Nothing but smooth water roundabout, what bliss! Neither fences nor walls, room enough to go dancing! Being used to being lulled to sleep like this, Growing used to the comfort of home gets taxing. Every time we set sail, weíre wed to the earth, Most beloved, most faithful, most fair, To return at the hour appointed... Even rocked by the sea, gently lulled on the berth, Wayward children in their motherís care. The lighthouse canít blink as it stands to its feet, It just stares at us, the dumb lout. Itís just seen our trawler reversing its speed, The propellers going full out. Even riding at anchor is something like bliss, Gently lulled by the earth till oneís soul is humming. Those who return from the storms are used to all this, Getting used to our next homecoming.
© de Cate + Navrozov. Translation, 1995