The Island

Blossoming over virgin waters,

Isolated from piercing eyes,

The toxic touch of mortal monsters,

And their vile, ignorant lies,

Meadows of countless colors

Flow with the cerulean skies.

Blessed with eternal spring,

Bulbs of every size and shade

Explode with life, sparkling,

Filling every vacant glade,

The memories reawakening.

Lives in the mind replayed.

Eternally lit by the bright Olympian,

Darkness lives as mere shadows:

Escorting the trees and the mountain

And the resting busy swallows

Searching for the seafaring man

Who dare search for these meadows.

For tis not a place for discovery,
Rather, it is an island of privilege,

Of honor and of sympathy.

The warrior of virtue, the ruler of knowledge,

Those who righteously seize opportunity

Can endure the posthumous voyage,

Pass ethereal gates of serenity

And live in this image.