It was quite a thing to be home,
with the wind rapping promises
at window panes, and his mind
full of sails and horizons and
the great life that was stammered
through departure to return.
He had written books, as though
words could mirror oceans,
and his maps of foreign shores
were universally acclaimed.
But all he saw were lines
and notations that were soundings
of mere measurable depths
and easy claimed domains.
And he knew it as deceipt made
to entertain those dreamers who
consumed adventure stories in
their safe and cosy rooms. But
beyond all publications, and those
warmly greeted speeches, was
the all he couldn't utter and the
distance that remained.
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