Hymn of the Exiled

The rusty, russet soil of the shoreline

shrinks more quickly than I’d like.

The sandbar and the harbor release their hold

all too eagerly.

The current snatches at the hull

like an orphan seizing the last scrap.

And I find my heart adrift.

 

My thoughts try to swim back with all their strength.

My memories fade, weeping as they stand on the banks.

The luteous sun strikes me with a smalt melancholy,

so much deeper than the waves that skip us like a hollow stone

across the meandering ocean’s surface.

 

My love unties the knots of the bonding kerchiefs

of our Handfast Day, and I no longer care how high

the restless waves fling themselves at us to pluck us

from the deck and wash our bones to brine.

 

The kingdom crown, once so desired, so soon set aside,

besieges my brow with a phantom weight,

and the royal scepter

is now but a common oar.

 

There are no words to balm this sadness,

to bind this slow and leaking death.

And so I drown it in tears and rage,

never to be home again.

 

Never to be,

at all.