In a shattered ship, without helm or mast,
I sail the broad gulf of love,
in whose sea the waves are of fire,
and break on hearts, not on sand.
Here I weep, moored to the chain
of a thought, so blind to my own good,
which hopes to find some peace:
where they cry fire, fire roars.
In this sea of my defeat uncertain,
I strain my eyes, from weeping tired,
and very far away the port appears before me.
And no sooner do I joyfully greet the port,
then a great storm of troubles
drives me back and it disappears.