On vellum fair his feather travels, back and
Forth crocheting dots, and lines and forms, dancing
Laces full of mysteries.

And from the scratch of the tip upon the piece
Of animal skin, coasts, mountains and pikes
Came to rise. Here and  there a rough display of places
And lands came to life.

There’s a river past this hill and a forest
At its top. A town merchant teems with streets,
Roads, strongholds, oceans, an isle adrift.

Bedrunk with ink the map gets filled in as
The candlewax in small drops fall, ‘till
Darkened regions get a trail to lead in.

Knotting threads of a genesis he strives to braid
For storytellers, so raconteurs in bold black lines
Can tell enchanters and kings where they’ll lie.

Flattening the folly paper with the palm,
The cartographer sees legends yet unborn:
A creased scroll yearning stories to be told and
Riding warriors wherein’ll roam.

A block of foam for thoughts to drift into,
To be furnished with dreams, musings, and visions true.

– Noé Varin