Olive branch you extend,
And I reach out with my own.
But time keeps passing
And turns it into a dagger
That twists in the heart
As I open my hands to find nothing;
Perhaps it was all imagination.
Gentle breeze starts blowing,
And I dare to venture a smile.
The moment draws to a close
And turns it into a stormy gale
That tries to uproot all the faith
That I had built in my heart;
Perhaps it was all imagination.
I would ask for meanings, if allowed,
Of the many words which float
As messages in paper boats do;
There for all the world to see.
Because I am afraid now
Of falling off the cliff of difference
That seems to be present
Between what is said,
And what I understand.
These words seem miraculous
For they sound as if spoken
From the depths of my own agony
Instead of the writer’s;
Perhaps it is the same?
But the words are not mine
And I dare not claim anymore
To understand what was meant.
To ask for meanings,
I must sail my own boats
And that plan suffers
From the same flaw of interpretation.
But I must, of course,
For there exists now a vast ocean
And only a vessel made of feeble paper.
I can only hope
That the ocean does not engulf it.
Then again, the ocean is free after all.
Who knows if the boat was even headed my way.
The Writer's Nest 