The land wreathes in rhythm;
And caressed with cruel history and rough tenderness,
Scratching the skin of my patience.
Absorbed with the shock,
I'm suspicious of this happiness
Like I've been.
The dearth of space
And the eloquent but emptiness of time,
Betrays me to presently squash and squander my solitude
I recognize this place,
This wilderness men call life
I've been here once,
Maybe more and more
Corollary to the indelible pregnancy
Of this thorns
And the profuse smiles in my wrinkles
Swam the Mediterranean
And climbed the Everest
But the pastures have all been eaten by termites.
Can't climb Kilimanjaro again;
Not because it's low,
But because it's home.
Now the sojourner is back
With more debt
Clinging to the breast of silence
And succoring in the navel of sighs without relief.