The peaks were barely seen that night—they hid Among a sea of aster-painted clouds.
The skies were filled with stars that shone like pearls Strewn on the shoals of treasure-laden isles.
The sage and pupil journeyed on, although Beholding neither earthly fields below
Nor mountaintops rearing their jagged crests Into the time-exempted floods above.
“But how are we to make our way, or know In which directions we should choose to go?”
Questioned the student as he waded through The unshorn clouds that whirled about their waists.
“How can we find our way out of this world Master—it seems a tenfold mystery?”
The sage continued through the cloudy flood, Though he could neither see his feet below
Nor catch sight of the craggy trails that formed The stair on which they made their slow ascent.
The sage paused solemnly before the clouds— “There’s only one way to find out,” he said.
“Besides, all that we know are mysteries.” Like clouds, the sage and pupil drifted on.
David B. Gosselin is a writer, researcher, and poet based in Montreal. His poetry collection is entitled Modern Dreams.