Friday, May 11, 2012

The Pilgrim Waits

I sit here. On the banks of
This pregnant river, for
One century, perhaps two,
An eternity
I wait, and the river,
My unwilling companion
Remains pregnant…
One day, she’ll give birth
To a civilization, perhaps two
I cannot be certain, and
This is not my concern
I just want to cross the river and
Be on my way, my unknown destination,
Far from this about-to-be-born
Civilization and its pregnant mother…

I sit here.
I cannot cross this pregnant river and
The river cannot give birth
It isn’t time yet,
And time, like future itself is
Missing – dead and gone.

I sit here.
Collecting the twig, and leaves and branches
On the banks, I fashion a barge, an
Instrument of travel, a means of movement
On the swelling belly of the pregnant river.
If not me, perhaps this
Barge of twig and leaves and branches
Will find its destination.
At least, a deferent spot…

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