In a ship with a rooming house at sea

In a ship with rooming houses at sea.

Surrounded by a boundless expanse of pale

the whistling wind and the pleasant waves, huge and arrogant waves.

Or a lone boat floating on the tumbling sea.

The boat is joyful and full of confidence, with white sails.

In the shimmering waves and foam of the day, or under the stars of the night, sailing forward.

There, like a wanderer of the land, I might be read by sailors young and old, and

At last with them cordially.

"Here are our thoughts, the thoughts of mariners.

Here appears not only the land, the solid land," they would then say.

"The sky envelops this place, and we feel the deck undulating beneath our feet.

We feel the long swell, the ceaseless ebb and flow of the tide.

The unseen and mysterious strains, the vague and significant hints of the ocean world, the flowing sound, the

The fragrance, the faint sound of those ropes, the melancholy chorus.

That distant and endless hazy prospect and horizon, it's all here.

This is the poetry of the ocean."

Then, O my book, do not blossom, but fulfill your destiny.

You are not only a remembrance of the land.

You are a ship that rides the waves, and though I do not know where I am going, I am always full of faith.

Please accompany every ship that sails, and set sail!

Please bring my love to them, wrapped in a bag.

For you, dear sailors, I have hidden it in every page.

O my book, speed up, my boat, raise the white sails high

Across the arrogant waves.

Singing, over the boundless pale to every sea.

Bring this song of mine to all sailors and their ships.