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THE WANDERER TO MAIDEN

Jennibeth Ramos

In the midst of the night, with the silver moon above,

I paddle in this quiet river,

river that is my past.

Gray it is now, but crimson during the day.

My river is my monster,

that haunts my dreams astray.

While bloody red, fishes drown, ferns dry up.

Rocks were thrown, they sink to the bottom.

At dusk grandeur-is-me.

My river brings me glory,

I have their katana's respect.

My principles were seen, I have gained notoriety.

But lo! My river wants to drown me! Its waves will tear me down.

So I decided to wander, no more thrown stones and drying ferns.

I will leave my river,

with my vessel, I will float,

I am my vessel, my vessel is novel.

My paddle is my hearth; will my paddle be willing to leave my river?

If it does, will my river let me reach the shore?

Will my paddle conquer my river?

And triumph over its waves?

Will my paddle be unanimous with my vessel’s mind?

And fill the sacred silence my vessel made?

Behind is dark, but in front is much darker.

At the end of my river,

Will I see my maiden waiting for me?

A sea of cloudless sky and bright summer moon?

Soaring fireflies and greeting flowers?

Or will darkness welcome me?

A night of blizzard and winter moon?

Drifting soul of fear and uncertainty?

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