After days at stretch
of his stoic distress,
of an endless time,
of their golden lapse,
that the dawn of an echo
of past souvenir
made way for a picture
of clarity and of fear.
Never, not once, it seemed
he was a part indeed
of the world that
had left him in dire need
of a path to walk
or a need to fulfill
the vision of visionaries
the oath of infidels.
A broken ship ever
aground in an empty bottle
protected by none
and threatened by the slightest tremble,
did he realize the folly
in his mind’s decree,
the doldrum is the curse
while the wind lets you free.