The Symphony of Footsteps

By Andreas Buneci

Smoke’s cloudy silhouette pushes through the horizon. His footsteps are light yet distinct in their path along the tail of our ship.

The chilly sways of the arctic winds pierce through my ocean-felt coat, as the rumbling racket of ice glides along our wooden fortress.

Every hour our footsteps crack the air, tipping from stern to bow, heaving and pulling, pushing our ship through the starch of the sea, never stopping.

Eyes glare at us from all around.

They are perturbed and black as midnight's darkest hour. Yet, the caramel gleam of the distant snowy peak pierces through them, reaching out its hand as if the arctic’s lands are turning their cheek.

But all the while, the ice still breaks because of the symphony of footsteps.

With the pounding bass of our steam engine and the percussive hints of our bells and belts we march, in the anthem, for the Black nectar.

As the gulls flock away, as the gray-tipped seals cautiously stalk, as our pitiful gray smokey tail shuns out the lavish mango light, and the fields of white ice turn into ravines of night, and as our footsteps lead this perilous sight, for the ice crown of our sapphire mother, sacrificed for our people’s own, is off balance: cracked and delicate.