The Navigator’s Lament

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Winds press on our sails,

storms arise in silent hearts,

who will steer with me?

The chart in my hands,

prayer lines traced in moonlit ink,

no eyes read but mine.

Yet the waves still speak,

whispers laced in breath and glance,

prayer beyond my words.

Hands that stir the pot,

laughter ringing through the mast,

are these hymns unknown?

Eyes lost in the stars,

soft footprints on morning sand,

worship in their way.

Not all sails are white,

not all prayers rise as echoes,

some drift like sea foam.

Must I name the wind?

Or is love’s unseen current

already enough?

If I stand too still,

gripping maps none else can read,

do I miss their course?

Let me learn to hear,

not in echoes of my voice,

but in their own tide.