"Sa sega ni dua e qiqi vakayawa me sega ni lesu tale."
(No one travels so far that they cannot return.)

Cup of ginger tea in one hand,
I picked my local Fijian newspaper
from the bookstand.

The front page advertised
the smart city of our state,
its words singing in chorus,
giving my dreams checkmate.

It harmonized
how getting employed in its IT parks,
and living in its residential spaces
makes you lucky whether heads or tails.

The last page was my stop,
in the streets of black-and-white paper,
to breathe in healthy predictions
and let my monotony turn to vapor.

My eyes landed on the horoscope;
Sagittarius was my zodiac sign.
It said, "Your life will soon align."
The funeral party of my dead wishes
stopped, to walk alive from their coffin.
Another prediction hit me:
"Luxurious travel awaits,"
making my mind go puffing.

My mental journal brimmed with memories
of the smart city already,
and I prayed my unescorted luggage
to give up its hollowness,
to hold my travel essentials
and fill my bags with wellness.

I sought benediction from the elderly.
On their tears, my assumed console was:
"I leave to wander, to dream, to grow,
but my heart knows the way back home."

"Na vosa e vaka na wai, e sega ni rawa ni lesu tale."
(Words are like water; they cannot flow back.)

Love, your thousand promises
could be woven into an endless thread,
and now I measure your lies
with a precision no lover ever can.

You told me I couldn’t lay petals
along your path,
for I was too busy gathering thorns
that would bleed us in the aftermath.

But I never knew you, yourself,
were the thorns,
secretly planted in the soil
of gardens, we called our own.

You prioritized yourself,
misleading me with your beautiful words,
and now I’m a book full of your vocabulary
each paragraph a creature
unwanted by any herd.

I want you to drain your venom
from my bloodstream,
to promise petals, not thorns, for me.

But I forgot the thread
of your lies betrays my proximity,
stretching endlessly into infinity.

No blessing, no optimistic encounter,
can ever undo your promises,
for words are like water,
and they cannot flow back.

"Sa sega na yagona na vatu, ia e dau tara na vanua."
(The stone has no legs, yet it supports the land.)

Walking past a holy place,
incense sticks stood upright,
jabbed into the dark ground
beneath sacred trees swaying in sanctity.
Beside them, I, a human, felt like an entity.

An old man sat nearby,
his wheelchair worn with time,
buzzing a harmonica tune
to entertain devotees and passersby.

I offered him some takeaway food,
for his wrinkles carried grief,
yet his aura exuded
a quiet, spiritual belief.

Curious, I asked why
this service to devotees mattered so much.
He gazed at me,
as if I were a dark rainy cloud,
and he, a post-downpour raindrop-laden branch,
Both of us are struggling to balance our accounts.

His words amazed me,
simple yet profound as he replied:
“The stone has no legs,
yet it supports the land.
Similarly, I a disabled, dormant soul
offer my spiritual signature
to passersby,
acknowledging God’s divine hand.”

.    .    .