Lowering the sails

Arm in arm and up in arms with passionate merchants, ensuring every home is without a father, we troll waters of discontent while belting out torch jigs and capricious dirges. No spawn unspilled, we drift, waiting steady, hungry, eager to swallow the flames of our lies.

We read our heaps of letters, listlessly collected at innumerable posts restante. Letters from the beloved drown us, crush us. We head home, slumped by sorrows, swags of gifts and touching mementos. When we arrive, we cannot find our way home; the taxi drivers don't recognize the street names, and the streets look unfamiliar to us. By dawn we realize this is not our port. Yet no one can tell us where this port is, or what it is called. They say, "This is a port. It's here. Where else should it be?"