In the ship’s chimney the desolate
ocean days were drying wet days
pinned down by the blade of the ship’s bow
like butterflies under the zoologist’s cork
in the sailor’s colourful diary.

The ship’s chimney is a nose
on the face of a portrayed heir to a throne
boldly riding his horse through
the turmoil of war from which
warm arms are still smoking and steaming.

The ship’s chimney whistles
passing by the homeland
like a master to a runaway dog
and with its foggy power
veils and changes the standpoint
so that everybody can fly up in the air together