The Drifters

By David Gosselin

The sage and pupil journeyed on 
Into a darkened valley-glade 

Whose air was laden with the scent
Of unctuous and bitter saps. 

For many nights, they carried on, 
Sheltered beneath the forest canopies, 

But no light seemed to guide their way— 
No light but that of starlit streams. 

The travelers listened to a choir 
Of cicadas singing their song. 

The summer breezes drifted through 
A fog-enveloped maze of oaks. 

“Some people walk the night,” said the sage 
“But no clear path reveals itself.” 

“They wander never knowing that 
They lost the road so long ago.” 

The sage went on, “Then there are those 
Who journey through the denser woods.” 

“They fear they might be found”—he stopped 
And peered into the starlit stream. 

David Gosselin is a writer, researcher and translator in Montreal, Canada. He is the founding editor of The Chained Muse and New Lyre Magazine. He writes on Substack at Age of Muses.