To the cape of joy or to the cliffs of grief,
to the islands of lavender skies, -
just wherever we moor to achieve relief,
our eyelids are weary to rise.

Muddy portholes are looking pictorial:
palms of Tropics and icebergs of blue,
golden gardens of time immemorial,
all this slowly appears into view.

But wherever we moor to achieve relief,
to the islands of lavender skies,
to the cape of joy or to the cliffs of grief,
our eyelids are weary to rise.

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