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My seas aren't made bland;
our country is rich by land.
My seas never looked so bad
'til I ain't holding your hand.

I never have become this lost
in a sea of choices,
have been confused the most
by a dozen of roses.

I have become so used to your poetry,
and I know your metaphors too well,
how much you're in love with reality
because in art is where you now dwell.

But I have become so used to your poetry,
and I know your paradoxes too well,
how much we almost took part in reality,
yet you still toss coined wishes in a well.

There is no feast in town;
there might be one, but you wouldn't come.
There is no feast at home;
there might be none, but you wish I'd come.

But there will be nothing good to do
for my ship is sailing away;
you'll be back in what you have to do
for we'll be miles away.

Maybe you'll conclude I drown much more
in your heart, in your arms, in you
than any ocean beyond the shore,
but love will bring dangers for us, too.

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