The Seven Crossings
When I was a child, my mother sung
Of verdant plains where bright light hung,
Of halcyon hills in distant lands,
Beyond seven rivers and silver sands.
“One day we’ll cross them all,” she crooned,
“By boat or bridge, by sun or moon,
Until we reach that land God made,
And rest at last in its golden glade.”
My father scoffed through smoke and sighs,
Dismissed her tales with weary eyes:
“Think of tonight’s meal, not the skies—
Dreams don’t fill pots or pacify cries.”
But as I lay with sleep undone,
She’d sing of river number one:
Its shining waters, deep and wide,
The river of cold where shadows bide.
“To cross,” she said, “you must bear flame,
Not heat from coal or prideful claim,
But fire born of love and cheer—
Only with such warmth may you draw near.”
The second river lies more still,
Its silence deep, devoid of will.
No wind, no wave, no echo sings—
Just empty hush on frozen wings.
“To cross it, child,” she’d gently say,
“Your heart must pulse with purpose’s sway—
So fierce it stirs the sleeping stone,
And makes the stillness not your own.”
Then to the third you’ll surely come,
A torrent wild, relentless, numb.
No branch or rope can pull you through—
No distant hand will come for you.
“But look within your heart so wide—
There, stepping stones in secret hide:
Each born of toil, each shaped from pain,
They rise through struggle, loss, and strain.”
The fourth, she said, is veiled in mist,
A river cloaked in dreams half-kissed.
Its waters hum with things unsaid,
The whispered names of hopes long dead.
“To pass it, you must speak them true—
The dreams you lost, the self you knew.
No silence here can serve as shield;
Only the brave let grief be healed.”
The fifth flows black beneath the stars,
A stream of wounds and ancient scars.
Its current pulls on guilt and shame,
And tries to drown you in your name.
“But let no burden bend your spine—
Release the past you made as mine.
Forgive yourself, then forge ahead,
And leave that river with your dead.”
The sixth is swift, with silver spray,
It shifts its course from day to day.
A trickster’s stream, it mocks the will,
And tests your truths until you’re still.
“To cross it, child, your steps must bend—
Not break, but flow, like wind through glen.
The truths you keep must learn to sway,
Or you’ll be lost and swept away.”
And last, the seventh waits alone,
Its waters still, yet carved from stone.
No sound, no sight, no light is cast—
A river where all journeys pass.
“You’ll need no torch, no bridge, no chart—
Just steady hands and open heart.
It is not crossed but stepped into,
And what you are must carry you.”
Now years have passed, and she is gone,
Her voice a ghost that guides me on.
The hills she sang of call me still—
Beyond the rivers, past each hill.
I’ve crossed the first with kindled flame,
And faced the silence without shame.
I walked on stones where I thought were none,
And found my strength in what I’d done.
I spoke the names I feared to keep,
And laid old griefs in rivers deep.
I loosed the chains of long regret,
And learned to bend, not to forget.
Now at the seventh’s edge I stand,
No map, no guide, no outstretched hand.
But in my chest, her song takes flight—
A flame, a path, a steady light.
So step I must, into the stream,
No longer child, nor lost in dream.
But bearer of the songs she sung—
A crossing made, and journey begun.
Ulysses Arlen resides in India, where he works a desk job by day and writes at night.
