A trace of sun, and eyes
no longer cover the clouds.
Days and weeks pass into dust.
And what of my nostalgic home?
Is it waiting for the coming
of the northern wind –
to shape the grass or trees?
Or a soft goddess, to wet the tongue.-
over the warm rays of the sun?
I am in no rush, and everything
soon will be built.
Then, my bones will shine
and I will reach the ocean.
No longer sitting in loneliness.
I will say to you –
one must go to the place where
the grasshoppers are hard to catch.
And blood no longer just flows,
but circulates, like an event
in the sky.
A Wandering Poet 