The Rink

This is another practice from English class: a metaphor poem.

What inspired me was a haiku by Japanese poet Kobayashi Issa:

On a branch
floating downriver

a cricket, singing.

Our life is the cricket, standing on a mere branch, doomed to capsize and sink into the river, yet we sing on.

A sign, made of splintering wood, stands in front of a skating rink:

“Welcome to the sKatiNg  pAd oF  L y f E ¡ We are

Open, TweNty-4 seven. Welcome.

Lyfe, yes, Lyfe may lOOk S k e tcH y, but people skAte

Here.              D    R

          N                           O

     U                                        U

        O                              N

                   R     &     D

On shiny thin blAdes,

oN the MilKy-wHite icE that melts away and freezes back up,

ON the ICe that is TImE

iT IS cold, the wINd, the ICE. bUT we SKATE, we SKATE,

we SKaTE and, LooK,

Our blAdes DO leave a track behind. and, and when YOU open your ArMs and glide…………..

Welcome, welcOme tO  L y f E. ”

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