Lost Journeys Poem by Noen Muti

The pillars sending signals to the earth's poles, home, grasslands, the roar of the rocky river on that bridge are memories. Some things become lessons. It's about how to hold gently. Caressing skin that starts to wrinkle. Through thousands of events, finally, there's a name that will remain in this heart, but no longer together. Like rain paintings on the window.

We will age as travelers who never tire. It's delightful to see you, and I never cease to be fascinated finding something, while at the same time you pursue something else. Like children among rows of blooming flower petals.

Perhaps after passing through station to station, it becomes clear that indeed you and I will not go anywhere. That the journey is home. It's not about arrival. But a pilgrimage, to lands of light, to graves, hills, ravines, ruins, river sources, and the birthplaces of blown clouds then drifted and turned into rain that thickens forests.

At times like that, it's no longer important to know which station this train will end at. Because indeed the journey always keeps a secret destination. I, as well as you, surely won't be able to understand it, if we undertake this journey alone. My soul is like wild grass creeping, which will bind and cover this body at the end of time, as life fades.

Your body is like a cluster of roses in my arms. Not a strand of story I could comprehend about your life, if only I had never walked with you. You're right, this journey won't be easy if we don't leave the past in that rushing river, in the coffee cup with pictures, on the park bench, or on the silent platform of life. We will disregard all habits, clothes on the clothesline, ticking clocks, and maps as guides to travel through space and time. That's us, spreading our wings against the wind. Reading the direction of the morning and evening sun. Preserving roots that grow in tough love.

I remember, we started this journey just like that. With a little plan, like a pinch of salt for a pot of fish. We suffice with a sack of memories as provisions. Because life is a very thick book, you said. And I don't want to read just one page of it.

Until the time comes, we return, and lay our heads with thinning gray hair, on the musty pillow whose scent I've come to know. You've known it too.