A Sailor's Wings

The breeze that used to wander through valleys and hills
Became a wind on a sailor’s wings at troubled sea
Here’s the dilemma now
Do I pull these sails up?
When do I cast the net? Should I turn the helm around?
Cause we don’t, we don’t, we don’t have a map
No lighthouse, no compass or forecast
No, we don’t have a date to come back
«8 meters to portside» says the man on the crow’s nest
While the rookie adventurer longs for the seven seas
Cause we don’t, we don’t, we don’t have a map
No lighthouse, no compass or forecast
No, we don’t have a date
No we don’t, we don’t, we don’t have a lighthouse, compass or map
This cruiser that we stand on is our only certainty