The blues is in the weave:
its colour, tone, rhythm
warps in and out of the weft,
as the melody wafts out of the traveller's trunk
and meanders like a plume of silk
on the decks and galleys.
It caresses the foreheads of seasick travellers
as they wait for the nausea
to pass, pass, pass,
as they wait for this un-willed for
state of affairs to change, eyes closed,
hands softly touching foreheads,
minds empty of everything
but this need to stay still.
The blues is in the sky. Always.
It lays little brush strokes of sound
behind each particle of wind,
it whistles a melody in and out of tune,
it knows it just has to go on and on
and/sometimes/ it tries so hard, it gets out of breath.
So, anytime you pick up a Nautilus shell
and listen to its secret language,
remember there's no need to decipher
every single melancholy word,
just observe its murmur re-arrange your soul
and hum along.
Some songs we recognise right away,
others make us cry
because we've just remembered
where we came from.
Daphne Alexopoulou 