Sailing Home

Because this delta boasts too many streams
it’s hard to find your bearings.
Fatigue will lessen purpose
and slow time makes restless: seven times seven
years, too long, too long. Please,
don’t forget what was. The past
is deathless; it remains
unchanged. What joys were there, are,
those that may be are not.
But even so, it’s hard to stay
content, the master of your moods,
and sadness slowly rusts away
pride’s breastplate, sorrow eats
huge holes into your equanimity.
The vessel leaks, and there’s no bailing out
the brine about your knees. The rudder creaks.
You try to steer towards the nearest harbour,
solely aided by a faded star: your compass
has for long been out of order
and these wide waterways
seem all the same. You have been out
upon them far too long.