Roanoke Poem by Wre Rabaca

In 1587 long before your time,
We sailed to an island with barely a dime.
117 of us were scarcely alive,
but I, Emma, had managed to arrive.
Supplies ran low, and many have died.

“Why must you travel back? ” I asked one cold winter day.
“Supplies are low; we won’t survive the winter without leaving the bay.”
The sailor replied with sadness in his eyes.
“Don’t worry, when we come back the magpies will be high in the sky.”
When the ship left, people cried, and the bird’s voices died.

The winds howled and beat against our doors,
Berries withered, and even the moors
who had sung with wildlife, was silent once more.
The ship did not return,
and many more were put into urns.

Three years past, then mocking birds flew.
“Thy fly in vain! If only they knew
they could spare us the pain! ”
The sailor screamed at the birds in vain.
Croatoan, Croatoan, Croatoan.

What could have happened to these poor souls?
Their tales never to be written upon scrolls.
Only thoughts and theories remain,
Never to be able to gain,
the real story behind this sad tale.

Perhaps, the natives came,
to take them away, but it’s all the same,
that they died that day.
They should have never come to that bay,
If only they sailed a little further away.

Maybe, they walked to another place,
one with better and more space,
to grow crops high and not starve.
But then, why would they carve,
Croatoan upon a tree?

With the houses, they could have built a boat.
Seeing as they didn’t leave even a coat.
Desperate to get away,
it’s possible they sailed,
but they most likely failed.

Could sickness have struck the camp?
a mad man smash a lamp,
to burn them all to the ground?
Their minds couldn’t have been sound.
Now, they will never even rest under mounds.

Whatever happened to them,
will remain as mysterious as a new gem.
Croatoan, was their only clue,
to find out who know,
of the lost colony of Roanoke.