Dear Wanderer Poem by Agatha Eliza

The gray clouds scatter pierced by spears
and flashes of golden light
in a space of mind
where the sky and the sea collide
projected on a canvas of ghostly shades of blue
and grayish green...
and far away, cliffs draped in mantles of fog
caressing the trees, nurturing hopes
sowing the seeds of remembrance,
shards from fragmentary sequences of dreams
which dwell in this forlorn landscape
constantly revolving, sinking deeper and deeper
in the sheer vastness of the wanderer's imagination.



Closer, yet closer...
here goes this still moment in the pocket
of the mighty time,
restlessly
lingering on in its persistence to become
an afterglow of a pleasant memory
ready to be pinned on an imaginary map
held next to the heart - this compass,
this key element that would serve and guide
the wanderer to find his way back anytime.
But what of his concept of time?
How does he count the hours, measure his days,
his weeks, his months and years
of these all changing seasons of his lifetime?
Oh, can you tell what time it is?
I'm here stuck in contemplating his figure
but...Tempus fugit!



The waves succumb under the altar in the rock
I'm searching for the echo of his fading voice,
a whisper that has lost its trace somewhere
in the glimmering aura of a legend-like past,
or perhaps it barely still resonates
in the stories that one aims to leave behind
on a piece of paper, or in some words
that are penned down in a hymn, poem or song
or just a name carved on a rock
or in the flesh-like bark of century old trees
consecrating the fading colours of the reverie,
in an effort to shape the endless and boundless
universe according to his vision
defiantly pushing all borders, borrowing
the lenses through which
the world can taste a glimpse of his endearing spirit.


Dear wanderer, the entire world is at your feet!