I stand here, in a prison of pack-ice of the forbidden North,
The fingers of their ridges molesting my throbbing bosoms,
As untended lustful men would, to a neglected woman of grace,
A bear saunters, looking for the food that the men left,
It stomps angrily before sliding off a ridge on my starboard,
Another with her cubs walks past on the floe,
Perhaps she knows there is nothing more to forage,
And a pack of walruses bask on the adjacent floe,
Laughing heartily at the travesty of my plight.
Then comes the wind that can go South or North at will,
And it asks me, why so forlorn in this divine kingdom?
I smile, at the irony, for I know she can see, yet,
I am no sloop now, merely flotsam, I say, for my men aren't here,
They've have gone South with the dogs on their sleds.
Ah! you wailer, the wind mocks me,
No elephant ever laments that there isn't a river at hand,
It goes in quest, with its herd to stop only when the river is found,
So should you, my dear sloop, leave the ice if you yearn for the blue seas.
I ask the wind then, what is the elephant and the river you speak of?
Is it a seal or a walrus or a auk of a different kind?
The wind sighs, I'll tell you of men that you understand then, it says,
When I told a man not to lament for there is no river,
He took my word and dug a well to bring the river home.
The same man brought me here, and left me to rot, I tell the wind,
Can't you see the ice is holding me hostage?
Unlike you, I can't choose the sea, a fjord or a promontory,
Or the elephant's home that you told me of.
The wind shakes its head, what more shall I tell you? it asks,
Tell the ice to find another mate, I say.
It swoops down then on the frigid ice,
Now craving to enter me, not merely molest
Ice, the wind calls, why not seek someone that'll stay,
Why not spare the sloop for the sea?
Why not? Why not you then for a mate? the ice asks,
His carnal smile unsettles the uppish till then wind,
It howls, kicks up a storm and leaves in a jiffy,
And then the ice mocks its bravado and turns its eyes towards me.
I am a sloop, an abandoned piece of driftwood, both,
A dead sanctuary, a mother's empty kitchen and dried bosoms,
All of which shall now satiate the cold fetish of ice,
For as long as the crows' nest stands over the surface,
And until the deep water takes me to her eternal kingdom,
Where men or bears or ice, can't lay their despicable arms on me.
The fingers of their ridges molesting my throbbing bosoms,
As untended lustful men would, to a neglected woman of grace,
A bear saunters, looking for the food that the men left,
It stomps angrily before sliding off a ridge on my starboard,
Another with her cubs walks past on the floe,
Perhaps she knows there is nothing more to forage,
And a pack of walruses bask on the adjacent floe,
Laughing heartily at the travesty of my plight.
Then comes the wind that can go South or North at will,
And it asks me, why so forlorn in this divine kingdom?
I smile, at the irony, for I know she can see, yet,
I am no sloop now, merely flotsam, I say, for my men aren't here,
They've have gone South with the dogs on their sleds.
Ah! you wailer, the wind mocks me,
No elephant ever laments that there isn't a river at hand,
It goes in quest, with its herd to stop only when the river is found,
So should you, my dear sloop, leave the ice if you yearn for the blue seas.
I ask the wind then, what is the elephant and the river you speak of?
Is it a seal or a walrus or a auk of a different kind?
The wind sighs, I'll tell you of men that you understand then, it says,
When I told a man not to lament for there is no river,
He took my word and dug a well to bring the river home.
The same man brought me here, and left me to rot, I tell the wind,
Can't you see the ice is holding me hostage?
Unlike you, I can't choose the sea, a fjord or a promontory,
Or the elephant's home that you told me of.
The wind shakes its head, what more shall I tell you? it asks,
Tell the ice to find another mate, I say.
It swoops down then on the frigid ice,
Now craving to enter me, not merely molest
Ice, the wind calls, why not seek someone that'll stay,
Why not spare the sloop for the sea?
Why not? Why not you then for a mate? the ice asks,
His carnal smile unsettles the uppish till then wind,
It howls, kicks up a storm and leaves in a jiffy,
And then the ice mocks its bravado and turns its eyes towards me.
I am a sloop, an abandoned piece of driftwood, both,
A dead sanctuary, a mother's empty kitchen and dried bosoms,
All of which shall now satiate the cold fetish of ice,
For as long as the crows' nest stands over the surface,
And until the deep water takes me to her eternal kingdom,
Where men or bears or ice, can't lay their despicable arms on me.
