This is intended to be understood in a platonic way. If one wants to interpret it in a romantic manner: it would also work, I guess. But it wasn't written for that purpose.

Suppose memories are an ocean,
that sometimes is wavy and sometimes it's still,
for sure, they're forever in motion -
at times, they are flooding and breaking one's will.

The moons and their tides are almighty,
they're often times gentle to us little souls.
Destroyed, there'll by plenty to tidy,
along with diseases that no man controls.

I'm on my vast island and lonely,
I'd drown if not able and willing to swim,
and sail to the countries and only
if today's winds and waves are benignant within.

Wherever I'll be and whatever,
I'm fish-fed, I trade, to the tides my blood's bound,
this band will be nothing to sever;
to heal your heart, hark, hear and watch the waves pound.

The weight of the floods and their pressure
is nameless, immeasurable, the force of the great,
but also their goodness, the treasure -
its granting the life, how can you estimate?

It meets most demands and my yearning,
the rain quenches thirst of the crops and of mine.
Tonight, yet, the flood is concerning:
it's threatening to powder my spine.

If landwards I fled, void and fearing
the currents that formed me as well as my heart,
I'd lose what life means, not adhering;
so slack and so void, better be torn apart.

But see, when we're sailing together,
we're stronger and maritime mercy applies.
The canvas is hoisted; in weather
that's too bad, we reef it, until it subsides.