They left the green land behind,

where the púca ran unseen

beneath hollowed branches,

where tricks stirred in the mist

and footsteps never quite found firm ground.

 

Across the restless waters they sailed,

heavy with exile, grasping

the promise of gold and breath,

chasing the mirage of quiet years,

somewhere the ghosts could not follow.

 

But the rivers whispered—

not the rivers of home,

not the winding black paths

of the púca’s mischief,

but something heavier, deeper, waiting.

 

The bunyip did not grin.

Did not trick, did not twist fate

as the púca once had.

It only watched, only reminded,

only lurked beyond the fire’s reach.

 

Still, when the púca laughed from memory

and the bunyip stirred beneath the water,

they knew— some shadows do not drown,

they only change their shape.