[Lyric] Were Not Going to Malta... (Richard Blanco)

because the winds are too strong, our Captain announces,
his voice like an oracle coming through the loudspeakers of
every lounge and hall, as if the ship itself were speaking.
We're not going to Malta--an enchanting island country
fifty miles from Sicily, according to the brochure of the tour
we're not taking. But what if we did go to Malta? What if,
as we are escorted on foot through the walled "Silent City"
of Mdina, the walls begin speaking to me; and after we stop
a few minutes to admire the impressive architecture,
I feel Malta could be the place for me. What if, as we stroll the
bastions to admire the panoramic harbor and stunning
countryside, I dream of buying a little Maltese farm, raising
Maltese horses in the green Maltese hills. What if, after we
see the cathedral in Mosta saved by a miracle, I believe that
Malta itself is a miracle; and before I'm transported back to
the pier with a complimentary beverage, I'm struck with
Malta fever, discover I am very Maltese indeed, and decide
I must return to Malta, learn to speak Maltese with an
English (or Spanish) accent, work as a Maltese professor of
English at the University of Malta, and teach a course on
The Maltese Falcon. Or, what if when we stop at a factory
to shop for famous Malteseware, I discover that making
Maltese crosses is my true passion. Yes, I'd get a Maltese cat
and a Maltese dog, make Maltese friends, drink Malted
milk, join the Knights of Malta, and be happy for the rest of
my Maltesian life. But we're not going to Malta. Malta is
drifting past us, or we are drifting past it--an amorphous
hump of green and brown bobbing in the portholes with the
horizon as the ship heaves over whitecaps wisping into
rainbows for a moment, then dissolving back into the sea.