The Boat That Stayed

 

With my boat, I am going nowhere.

The sails, the mast, the boom lie still,
though the wind keeps pressing against them.
The rigging and lines have grown weary;
even the keel and rudder seem tired
of carrying me nowhere. Hence tied.

There is an unspeakable sorrow
in knowing that tomorrow,
when another dawn breaks,
I may still be here—
anchored to the same place.

Around me, the waters awaken.
The port stirs to life.
Other boats slip quietly into the morning,
their sails catching the restless wind,
their hulls gliding towards distant horizons.

Every dawn seems to renew them;
every morning gives them another beginning.

But I remain.

I am in a fix—
caught between staying
and setting myself free.

Perhaps I should sell the boat,
let someone else take her out to sea,
let another hand hold the wheel,
another heart trust the wind.

Yet how does one sell a boat
that has carried so much of one's life?

So I sit here,
listening to the water
and watching the others disappear
beyond the harbour mouth,

wondering whether my boat is truly anchored—

or whether
I have simply forgotten
how to sail.