It is the Island that I thought that I would only see in death.
I have never forgotten it, the place of my best dreams.
I have nothing that I fear, no responsibilities resting on my shoulders.
The heavy weight of all of the things that I must finish before I am old,
This land does not make me have to reach them, not yet.
It is a land where I am not judged by my skin,
A land not bound to the fragile whims of an unseen God.
No man hangs his head in shame, or has a nose upturned in pride.
None of that exists here, just the rest we so desperately covet.
I gladly lean down to sit at the edge of the island,
To feel the water lap at my toes and breath in the exotic air.
But often, my attention is brought to the albino deer.
He stood at least a mile from me, perched on a grassy hill,
He stood like a watchful hero, his eyes grazing over the land.
When he speaks, I can only hear chimes and airy flutes.
I am confused by his presence, for this land is the monument of my peace,
I feel eager to be in this land, and yet this creature stands before me, restricting.
I am not bound by the fear of starvation or the barring heat of the summer.
But here this creature stands, generously planting vegetation that I don’t need.
He tends a land that requires no previsions, and I can feel his gaze land on me
With each bushel of worthless food that is planted.
I see this deer, and yet I have no way to return to where I came.
I feel my chest, and let the thump of my heart beat against my fingertips.
I’m not dead, not old, but I’m here and I’ve always longed to be here.
And yet, this creature remains, here to bless the Earth that needs no blessing.
This is the Island I never thought I could reach until I was dead,
But I feel myself falling, I’m not dead, I’m still here. Why am I falling?