“See the boats?”
The old man whispers,
“Yes, but the skies are so dark,”
The young girl says with curiosity,
“Why is that?”
The man takes a look again.
“That was Monet’s way of painting.”
Her eyes close as she imagines it:
Sailors awaiting the dawn,
Those first signs of light,
That glorious bright hue!
Until at the crow’s nest,
There is a sound.
“Land ho!”
“What’s that?”
One man sees hills,
Another sees a town,
Yet another a thick forest.
“Is that truly land in the distance?”
“No,” says one man nearby,
Looking over the starboard side.
“’Tis only a mirage,
Coming to fool us greedy men.”