We set the stage
and charted letters,
mapped out kisses and sorrows
like continents
waving across waves.

We gripped the soil
with our toes.
All the soft days
of pilgrimage
set chronologically in stone.

Our marches wavered
with trepidation.
We clutched souvenirs
of shattered glass
from our own starting place.

All that encompassed
no longer held face,
but we buried our diary pages
in cold clay,
heading north before day break.

But the gibbering waters,
they will break and toil,
eroding memories,
softening edges
of turmoil we create.

Ceaseless wanderers,
speak out your names
and swallow your old ways.
Unpack your bereavement
to strip it of its weight.