"Seaside"
A One Piece FanPoem
by Sacred Sakura
First Written/Conceptualized: somewhere around Feb.-April 2005
Rewritten: 6/20/2007
Published: 6/20/2007
Rating: K-plus for negativity and non-positive references
Genre: Angst
I don't own One Piece. If I did, I'd be in heaven right now.
Dedication: To Mr. Olsen, my freshman English teacher, who assigned us the themed poem packet. You were an awesome teacher. I still love Tuesdays with Morrie.
A/N: I wrote this a few years ago, but looking back at it recently, well, I didn't like it. So I rewrote the entire thing. For readers familiar with my One Piece fanfic Calm Tempest, this poem voices Arashi's thoughts after Yukino's death, from a different perspective. By the way, the reference to a dove is purely metaphorical; she's not referring to an actual dove.
My treasure lies beyond the sea;
I left him there, for he'd been set free.
He was a bird, a small white dove,
with a heart so pure, so full of love.
Yet others lacked love for this bird dear to me;
I could not bear to see his grief--
a grief so great, hidden, unbearable;
I gave him love I could not give
from my heartless heart of sable.
Like a child with all hope lost,
that poor young dove had paid a cost.
While seeking relief--safety--a home--
he was thrown mercilessly against hearts of stone.
Had I not seen that lost, grieved bird
and saved his life, whose voice I heard,
that dear bird of mine would now be dead,
lost to the miseries of invisible tears oft shed.
I treated his wounds and fed him well,
yet fully knowing
I would one day leave his cell.
I set him free to fly far away;
I knew that I could no longer stay.
And now I think of that small, gentle dove,
to whom I'd given my falsehooded love.
Had I not betrayed him, he would have lived
and to me that pure love he would still give.
I see his feathers in the sky,
so bright and pure, like the clouds up high.
His eyes are like the depths of a crystal lagoon;
his hair silvery strands,
faint whispers,
of a solitary moon.
I hear his voice, soft and clear.
He seems to speak; he seems to be near.
Where has he gone? Has it been fifty years?
Yet for him I have yet to shed any tears.
I said good-bye, but now I see
that doing so did not set free
my bloody, scarred, and guilty soul;
I killed him--killed him--my bird of pure white snow.
I wait upon the rocks right here;
I wait to meet my feathered dear.
I wait against the rushing tide;
I wait for him at this ethereal seaside.
Depressing, ne? And yet...still somewhat hopeful... (That is, until we realize the morbidity of her actions...)