Passengers
content warning: it’s very abstract.
In the night sky, here rises the moon.
Pale face smiles upon us, passengers
of the world, a temporary flight.
It is long and winding, this road
that we walk, leaving behind memories of smoke
as we listen to the calls of birds.
In the darkness, songs of the night birds
fill the air beneath the lovely moon.
We put out our campfires, and the smoke
covers the sky, briefly, from us passengers
as we take respite from the weary road.
In the morning, once more we will take flight.
The sun rises into the sky and so our flight
begins. The night birds are replaced by day birds,
their song different accompaniment as we travel the road,
saying hello to the sun and goodbye to the moon.
In your life you are also a traveler, a passenger,
on your way to a destination beyond life’s smoke.
Most things exist with multiples. Take, for example, smoke:
it conceals and it guides, it hangs low and brings flights
of fancy in its shapes, and even those who know they are passengers
are not immune to dreaming of birds
flying high beneath the shy lady, our sweet moon.
The metaphorical life is also a winding road.
It is broken and twisting and sometimes unbelievable, our road,
but it reminds us of where we need to go when the smoke
becomes intoxicating. The road remembers, much like lady moon,
and it helps us through our flight.
We sing to bring joy and keep our energy up, and we sing like the birds,
for the joy of it. Birds are the same as us: passengers.
And so it must be said: we are all passengers.
Temporary travelers who walk many different roads
and follow the songs and wings of birds.
This life is insubstantial, and the next life is also like smoke –
but our souls shine bright, rise into the sky, take flight –
and return home, to us and from us, under the light of the moon.
EDIT on June 26: I, uh, forgot the last stanza.
The night sky’s passengers rise like smoke,
Smiles borne on the road, upon us in flight,
In the world, the birds fly beneath the temporary face of the moon.
