Do
not ask the wanderer
where he is bound for.
He is in love with the path.
The feast of auspicious sights
do not carry him away.
You cannot roost in clouds
in wings of butterflies.
That lass in the inn
has Esmeralda's eyes.
But beyond a one-night stand
they can't escort him to rebirths.
The filled glass and that magic strain:
lullaby enough for this night.
Yet, night is not young anymore.
Swollen feet must move ahead
all alone, out into hot sun.
The pangs of bleeding crossroads
cannot dishearten him.
Living is but that art of roosting
even in tempests.
Life still blooms, though slow,
even beyond tearful marshes of exodus.
In the wastelands of untold devastation
it begets islets of survival.
One day he might turn up again,
may be with a halo around him!
Who knows!
Only those who set out
came back with great wisdom.
where he is bound for.
He is in love with the path.
The feast of auspicious sights
do not carry him away.
You cannot roost in clouds
in wings of butterflies.
That lass in the inn
has Esmeralda's eyes.
But beyond a one-night stand
they can't escort him to rebirths.
The filled glass and that magic strain:
lullaby enough for this night.
Yet, night is not young anymore.
Swollen feet must move ahead
all alone, out into hot sun.
The pangs of bleeding crossroads
cannot dishearten him.
Living is but that art of roosting
even in tempests.
Life still blooms, though slow,
even beyond tearful marshes of exodus.
In the wastelands of untold devastation
it begets islets of survival.
One day he might turn up again,
may be with a halo around him!
Who knows!
Only those who set out
came back with great wisdom.
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