Clandestine Testimony
My bones are strong, my mind is clear,
The path is wrong of that I fear.
But I dare not to see my rear,
The flames are hot, the danger near.
And now you ask of whom this face,
Of whom this wretched choice to bear,
I’m mortal son of deathless race,
The poorest one with mal de mer.
Of what I dream it nightmares you,
My gold not stocked but eaten rare,
My only right is to pursue,
A life of slave without health care.
Of all the things I could be called,
The ones of shame and those of glory,
I heard of one that is installed,
They call me simply; perfect story.
Thus very soon we will have met,
By stormy morning over tea,
I will be dead and you’ll be sad,
For hundred people in the sea.
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