Voyage How slow they are awakening, These trees, this earth, how late they sleep. How wide this plain dividing us, This land that's torn by rivers' sweep. Beyond the window of the bus: America, its magic will. Its canvas vast, its scale precise Disquiets thoughts that rise and spill Behind to lie with those we pass, Those marking life in quiet nests-- A flash of incredulity On cowboy, farmer minds at rest. Before it dawns, another stop For country breakfast, ham and eggs; Where from each other faces turn So our indifference may beg For that fine balance found between New friendship and old emnity. The waitress, inefficient, slow; And I, uncaring, ask for tea That then calls for a second choice: "Sir, lemon? milk?" I leave it plain, Remembering the words, a voice: "You're indecisive"--truth with pain. My gaze, turned outward, falls upon A boy who smiles, who seems impressed By something we, the exiles, fail To know, or hide from being guessed: That nothing can be left behind-- Contempt? Despair? Where can we go It will not ride each heart and mind? But, that, he surely cannot know. With miles to go before true dawn We, who have ceased believing in Arrival, rise to board the bus, Resume our "voyage" to an end. I used to think that "voyage" was Derived from French, "voir--to see," But blindly stumble to my seat And to "Villette" I learn to be A place and not an heroine-- The saddest book I've ever read About lost love by one who knew Of death to whom she'd soon be wed. And as I light a cigarette I find that I've been left alone-- My faceless fellow travellers Have found sleep's peace my thoughts postpone. ...With night and novel finished now I turn to face the daylit earth Aware that nighttime's threnody Is now a wondrous song of birth. How quick they pass the scepter, rule, These lords of brooding, hope supreme; How narrow is the bridge between Dark thoughts of night and daytime dreams. (C) 12-27-95 Charles SielertBirth sign: Not entered
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