On the open sea

To travel, truly, ist he star of life, but I know nothing better than the home of synchrony in dream an patient deed, where man and wife daily consort with joy. Luckiest, then, the man, like Ulysses, whose boundless voyage sanctifies the heart. What sharper guide zo the open sea?

Voyage, voyage,
Voyage my heart,
Come with me,
For we must start.

The horizon faded beneath my gaze, till the air tumbled down like glory: the alkahest of heaven, will not submit to paradox or time. And yet, could casms fill the mind as waves engulfed the craft? My thoughts were walking out, like strangers. Another voice looked on: ‚What skill coud navigate these planks, if the shore turned turtle on the tide?

Sail on, sail on,
Sail on my heart,
Come with me,
You are my art.

‚Why, the, the global earth must pitch on the foam!’ But do you think that fish believe the sun has fins, bevause a shaft of light dissolves the waves? No oddity contorts the sea. And yet, the sunny pollen bends, and changes track, when suddenly it plunges down, till fruit grows from the deep. No searchlight rushes bolder through the night. Perhaps as angels tread from star to star. But hold: can fable map the contours of the heart?

Travel, travel,
Travel my heart,
Come with me,
Wes hall not part.

Remenbrance is a compass in the soul, and clings to truth like certainty, beaond the daily wreckage of belief. But who will draw the plans, and set the ship to rights? The Sirnes lie on the bridge, whilst the Cyclops has hung his hammock from the keel. So sing, together, sing: ‚The sailor cannot see the sail, and the cook’s gone spare in the gally!’ Heave-ho, my hearties!

Sail on, sail on,
Sail on, sweet heart,
Come with me,
You are my art.

For wher does Fable go? A story from the end, when all is done, spins brighter consequence, which winds like motley ribbons through an emptiness within: the heroes gone to rest, and heroines, now walk in frames more insubstantial than the art, that conjured them with fancy names. And they walk on, trough uninhabited limbs. Did this arms wield a sword? And were these ribs a bower fort he bride? Rejoice! Rejoice! The narrative has just begun. With more deeds than mere head could ponder, memory has created a home.

Voyage, voyage,
Voyage my heart,
Come with me,
You are the chart.

Revolt and stay. That’s what the sails will do. And take their buffeting like hope. For soon, the storm will cease, and the watch will call out to the future: ‚Land ahead! Land ahead!’ Distantly, another voice replies: ‚There is no logic more than life.’ And then, perhaps, the evening will settle her stars upen the sea.

Jeremy Adler