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The Voyage to Ithaca

Once, running with the warm wind at our backs
we raised the canvas, shipped the oars
and as we leapt the swells like flying fish
at play upon the summer sea
it seemed to us that only a moment more
and we would reach our homes and all we loved

But that was long ago, before the wind turned
to blow an icy gale against the bow
before one by one the others slipped into despair
and left their bones beneath the waves
before I became an old man, rowing alone
toward a memory


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