From the Hilltop
--Tomas Tranströmer (trans. Robin Fulton) 

I stand on the hill and look across the bay.
The boats rest on the surface of summer.
"We are sleepwalkers. Moons adrift."
So say the white sails. 

"We slip through a sleeping house.
We gently open the doors.
We lean toward freedom."
So say the white sails. 

Once I saw the wills of the world sailing.
They held the same course-- one single fleet.
"We are dispersed now. No one's escort."
So say the white sails.