The lonely sail blinks by its whiteness
In the fog of the deep blue sea!..
What does it seek in distant place this?..
What has it left in place native?..
The waves are playing, wind is squealing,
And the stick bends and squeaks right here...
A pity it neither seeks happy,
Nor runs away far from it
Beneath him there's a steam of azure,
Above him there's sun golden light...
And it, wild spirit, seeks for storm here,
As if the storm can bring calm life.
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