The Tempesttłum. Jarek Zawadzki
The sail is torn, the rudder bursts, the waters roar,
All people yell, the pumps release a baleful wail,
The ropes yanked out of deckhands' palms: we've lost the sail!
Lo! Sun in blood-shade setting, hope there is no more.
The gale in triumph howls, and on the sodden hills
That rise above the chaos of the fatal sea,
A genius of death ascended, and now he
Assails the fortress long destroyed and further kills.
Some on the deck lie dying, drowning in despair;
Some fall in neighbor's arms and sadly say good bye;
Some pray to drive the death away, some pray to die.
One passenger sat calmly in a corner there,
And thought: Oh happy he who's swooned amid this hell,
Or prays or knows a man to say the last farewell!