What land-favoured man doubts
his own lot\'s luck? Let him reckon
the sea-spent winter\'s exile:
how I weathered the hellish rows
below decks, those dire hours
lashed to the prow, tossing
alone through heart-shearing grief;
the roiling seas, keel-breaking reefs,
our constant threat of certain doom—
for being kinless, no comfort I knew
could ease the ravenous hunger.
And all the while
I strained to hear above the surging surf
some comrade\'s laughter, a solitary gull\'s
mocking caw, for thrill of knowing
another shared my misery—might
guide towards some hospitable harbour—
but no kind burgher beckoned
to join at his humble hearth\'s great bounty.
How could he imagine
the sea\'s relentless toll?
Content with home fare,
the choicest cuts, sweet wines.
he has no need of adventure,
to navigate life\'s most treacherous trails;
knows nothing of ice-bound shores
impending sorrows, northern nights
swathed in bitter rime.
For him there\'s joy enough
in harps, the cuckoo\'s gay trill,
maidens dancing through summer
meadows awash in colours.
Still, drunk on youth,
my heart surges with the tide, scent
of sea-salt waves throwing me on-wards
towards strangers distant shores;
to follow in the whale\'s wake
over earth\'s ample girth.
For God\'s grace,
an ocean\'s embrace is far greater a gift
than any land\'s dead loan of life.
All earthly pleasures will succumb to one
of the inevitable three—plague, old age, rage—
and only the praise of those left at the grave
may leave a lasting fame. From foes
respect for deeds, wars won, are heavenly
hosannas earned, vigilance against
devilish fiends...
Ken e Bujold
© 2022