The lost continent
The lost continent
As to the year it sank, we can’t be certain;
the historian was vague, the ink is blurred,
and where he named the overbrimming ocean,
the scroll is torn, obscuring that one word—
something ic. And yet he left a wealth of information
on the nature of the place: the rivers clear
as souls in heaven, rife with river pearls
and silver salmon; field and forest, filled with herds of deer,
foxes with soft white ruffs, and bristling boar,
and in the marsh, great flocks of cranes like undulating seas;
the scent of grass and evergreen like perfume on the air,
and everywhere the hum of honeybees.
The people there were muscular and buxom,
skilled in all manner of art and music, having grown accustomed
to a life so leisurely it seemed a sin:
reach out a hand at random, and an apple would drop in.
A metaphor, no doubt. But fishermen
have told of antlers tangled in their lines,
and sailors have reported a gentle scraping on their keels
while passing over what they swore were pines.
As to the year it sank, we can’t be certain;
the historian was vague, the ink is blurred,
and where he named the overbrimming ocean,
the scroll is torn, obscuring that one word—
something ic. And yet he left a wealth of information
on the nature of the place: the rivers clear
as souls in heaven, rife with river pearls
and silver salmon; field and forest, filled with herds of deer,
foxes with soft white ruffs, and bristling boar,
and in the marsh, great flocks of cranes like undulating seas;
the scent of grass and evergreen like perfume on the air,
and everywhere the hum of honeybees.
The people there were muscular and buxom,
skilled in all manner of art and music, having grown accustomed
to a life so leisurely it seemed a sin:
reach out a hand at random, and an apple would drop in.
A metaphor, no doubt. But fishermen
have told of antlers tangled in their lines,
and sailors have reported a gentle scraping on their keels
while passing over what they swore were pines.