Even today the island lies shrouded in deep mystery.
For ages an ethereal strain has drifted
from there—supernatural, strange.
As if from infinity streams a gossamer melody,
someone's enchanted call.
Even today no one can say
where it is, what kind of island it might be.
The centuries' Columbus and Vasco da Gamas—
all their eager curiosity now extinct. Dull geographers
pore over every earthly map they can find.
Ultra-modern powerful binoculars
in their pointless, indifferent busyness.
Still the island will not reveal itself.
Perhaps there, upstream along a little river,
plovers seek nests of peace, or else
some mindless demon casually maintains
the unbridled reign of evil.
Perhaps with tender grass cool dew plays
its rapturous games, or else black sacrificial rites
of terror, ankle-bells chiming. Perhaps there is
dreamlike green serenity, or its mockery.
It could even be—
there is moon, but no moonlight.
There is sun, but no warmth.
There is soul, but no body.
Perhaps love is proudly absent—
a bodiless lover searches and dies searching,
forever a cruel thirsting melody floats, rebellious
...in illusory ether.
Yet here on this shore gather the silent crowds
of shrine-crows, wise and foolish. They will go to that unseen island—
in their eyes the lifelong temptation
to catch peace's bright-colored doves. But some will never go—
theirs is the resolute unwillingness of a frightened child cowering in stormy night.
At last the futile earthly spell dissolves—
worn moorings snap,
anchors weigh and rise,
that ferry of fools loads up with
world-weary, implacable Sinbads,
rotting bodies wrapped in blue cold sailor's garb—
soul trafficking in soul.
The ship in restless wonder
drifts toward infinity
in search of that invisible island.