VOYAGE (After Baudelaire)

To the child, lover of maps and stamps,
The universe winds itself into a single ball;
How vast things seem in the glow of lamps,
In the eye of hindsight how small...
One greyish Monday, hearts grown jungles
Haunted by strange-beaked birds, we shall take
Our leave, directories, address-books, schedules,
Scattering et ceteras in our wake.
Maybe it's money makes some choose exile,
Each islet that flecks the look-out's gaze
An El Dorado predestined by the swell.
Others shun too much safety; there's one who plays
Court-astrologer to a mermaid's eyes.
Yet the true voyagers set sail without reason.
Household musts erased by torrid skies,
East, south or west, in and out of season,
We lap up the acquamarine like wine.
No ivory towers except our bodies,
Ahead stretch empires free from flag or ensign;
The only memorandum's the ocean breeze...