It's been so long a time
since we cast off, put to sea, headed for the unknown.
Intrepid, forgetful of whom we were,
greedy for estrangement and oblivion—
as if we could secure more freedom
the further we pulled away from dry land.
forever adrift at the mercy of waves,
have quelled our zeal,
and we still haven't found what we're looking for,
or we thought in the event we would come across—
the horizon seems to recede, stretch out on end,
spawning mirages one after the other,
puzzling our eyes and fooling our minds,
unveiling beyond such immutable, perfect line
nothing else but another one,
then one again, and so on.
To confront it all—
just our imperfect will and skill,
our fallacy and caducity.
Though sorrowful to admit,
it would be good, at last,
to leave the open sea,
allow ourselves to find a tranquil route,
have the vessel take us back to port.
So let the sails be unfurled,
follow favorable winds,
gather all that's left of us.
And let there be no uncertainty,
no regret, no delay—
still underway is the journey,
always in ambush the fiercest of gales.