The Seventeenth Leaf


Tiny boat, afloat

and lost within a hidden sea

Simple man, now stranded

within the lost and hidden sea

A song sung to the moon

or to those whom loneliness abides

A prayer meant for the one

who waits in splendor, and resides

Tiny boat, afloat

and lost within a hidden sea

The simple man, now gone

and so his song, his prayer, for eternity


There is a depth to this man’s thought that intrigues me. Where did it come from? This is but a simple servant to the King, for how and when does he have the time for such penetrating thoughts? I can only assume that this inner sea he speaks about is nothing other than the unanswered questions in his own mind.



I agree with M. There is a deep, existential feeling of sadness in this poetry. In the times of which he speaks, nothing was solid, and nothing was certain in such dangerous and unpredictable days. Plagues and wars spread like uncontrollable wildfire, and even the protection of a stone castle on the sea was no protection against such creeping doom. Ironically, it was the love of God that was most real to many people, including Sorren. Any yet, given such harsh and brutal times, along with the ever present fear of death, Sorren had moments of great lucidity in which to ponder his fate. This expression of fate is real to Sorren, and I strongly believe that it was not merely random musings of death that he pondered. Consider his metaphor of the tiny boat, afloat on the sea. The boat represents the chaos and uncertainty of life in those times, superimposed upon the certainty of death, and the loneliness of the grave. Sorren is that boat, and he connects the metaphor beautifully.

Sadly, I see no such corollary in the actions and musings of the vast sea of people I meet in this present day. I do not know what is in the peoples heart, and I have no special business to even speculate, but I do nevertheless. In my associations with people I see just exactly the opposite, and if these existential thoughts are of any importance, it seems to be nothing more than art, self aggrandizement . . .theater. Life to us, by comparison with Sorren, is easy and free, and in some cases superficial. To me, this explains the epidemic of self inflicted mortality that is also like a plague. In a strange way ironically, there is no time for such musings in modern times . . .life happens too fast.