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Written 4/22/2014

I am a wanderer.
Do not ask me, “Where did you come from?”
My homeland is far, far away, and words are weak.
How could you believe what I have done?
Understand what I have heard?
See what I have lived?
How could I translate from a language in which
every word has its own emotion,
every saying its own story,
And every idiom its own soul?

Do not ask me, “How was it back there?”
It is different here,
but everywhere I’ve been has been the same.
Everywhere I’ve been,
The sky had clouds and stars,
The hills had grass and birds and trees,
Roads had cars,
Schools had bells,
And humans were humans.
I have not seen war.
I have only seen small cruelties.
I have always lived near a river, near the sea.
And humans are humans.

Do not ask me, “How do you like it here?”
You are curious, but my mouth is tied,
for I cannot judge, cannot condemn
and every place was special when I lived there.
I loved the green mountains tinted gray behind the fog.
I relished the noise of energetic traffic
jostling and flowing in the streets.
I liked the bluish tint of driveways before sunset.
I marveled at the view in the backyard of
houses and trees across the glen.

Do not ask me, “How did you get here?”
The journey was not easy, yet it was not hard.
But as I go on living, a sorrow lingers below.
I am of this place now, but I have learned
That one can pretend that one will never leave
Yet the time of departure will come, regardless.
I can only walk so far before pausing,
Looking back, recollecting.
I will always remember where I’ve been,
but I’m afraid that I will forget.

Do not ask me, “Where are you going?”
For I think I know, but I know I’ll think differently.
I do not know what I need to know but don’t.
The world is wide; I have yet to find my way.
I am a wanderer.