All out at sea,
lost to the ruinous tides.
I'm talking, of course,
about my identity,
and all the things I once could hide.
There is nothing more for that, of course;
nothing but a keen and unending sense of loss
for the shipwrecks reclaimed as islands;
Gaia tell me it's all been only for a good cause.
And I don't disagree.
I didn't die a quadrillion times just to be me.
I died to bring back the flood, and the rain of fire, and the Matansang;
I died to bring back the Rabnanoti and the Konkizabida.
I died so that others, instead of seeing god,
might recognise that actually, when it comes down to it, we all
have found heaven and earth and purgatory and hell a little wanting;
maybe even Omelas, and even Earthsea as well,
though they were places where I lingered, their stories haunting
me long after I became an adult, and realised I was no sparrowhawk.
I am the fishcat lion redacted,
the Dreamtiger dancing on a very protracted
voyage out to nowhere;
and nowhere yet.
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