A bottle, washed upon the shore in silent reverence
Not bright nor brilliant, but dull and greenish,
Molded smooth by the waves.
There was one difference, however, on this bottle from the sea
From its brothers and cousins and relative kin,
To set it apart from the rest.
This bottle had a story, as all bottles do, but this story shone
Like the sun upon the sea, caught in the ocean flow,
Twinkling and flickering with the waves.
A bit of parchment shouted from inside the bottle loud,
A hollow sort of panicked shout, screaming to be released,
To tell its story.
“Oh Traveller!” It devotedly spoke, “If you get this message,
Washed upon the earth, be it sandy beach or rock cove,
Or slimy bog.
May you listen to my story! Let me tell it to you here!
I too am a traveller, or was, many a year,
But no, not anymore.
I was walking by the beach one day, blithe without a care
I spoke not, felt the sun upon my back and thought of nothing,
But the strong salt-air.
On the shore I saw a bottle, oddly green and worn, and wet
And lying in its center was a little piece of parchment,
A story of a traveller.
It’s the traveller’s fate to travel, until his mind can move no more
It’s a traveller’s heart I hand you, and I ask for you to listen,
And help a poor old friend.
Sail out across the ocean, as strait and true as your heart
Until you come upon an island, I will be there,
Waiting for the next traveller."