I sail over the sacred sea to the forbidden country. I never want this journey to end. The sacred sea nourishes me with the miasma of its moisture, its foggy atmosphere hanging above, shot through with the colors of dawn or sunset or noonday. Let the fresh air of the ocean clear my head and prepare me for the next
I hate composing poetry on the computer. Excuse me...
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Tibetan Personality Email Quiz
in which the sea is equated with one’s life,
and I described my sea as sacred…
I sail over the sacred sea
never wanting this journey
to the forbidden country to end.
I am nourished by the ocean air
shot through with the colors of dawn
or sunset or noonday. My head is clear;
I am ready for the next surge,
the next tack, the next change of course.
I am possessed of the power required.
My hair is pulled back out of the wind
and I have the strength of an element, a stable molecule,
or an atom, with charges circling,
a foundation with footers sunk deep in the ground,
a column, standing graceful and still,
a sustained note enwrapped with silence
and poised to reveal the rest of the melody.
But I don’t want this song to end,
so I pretend to be lost at sea,
confused by the star signs,
choosing one wrong sea lane