The shimmering moonlight dances at night.
The treacherous sea has also turned quite.
The gentle wind blows the pipe.
And all the stars too shine so bright.
The weary sailor rows his boat,
To reach his home, thinking it moat.
Shivering in cold, he pulls his coat,
Reciting a gospel or a wise quote.
His mother is waiting, standing at the door-step.
All has returned, but why my son so late?
Her heart with the sailor, eyes at the gate,
Dinner at the table, that she never ate.
She had sent the old man to the gloomy shore.
He could see nothing but a broken boat and a rotten oar.
He looks towards the sea if he could find more.
He sits on the sand — his legs tired and his heart sore.
The naive sailor doubles his speed,
Unaware in the darkness where the waves lead.
Rowing the oars as his hands bleed,
In the wrong direction the sailor heads.