The air from the weed, is hustling down
In desolate dusk of an unknown countryside
Like a malady muzzled all across.
Who lives the nest except for food?
Now that I am far from my country land
With handful of coins and cerise remains,
Sometimes dream of those streets of joy,
Those calls of my people and voices so grand.
I came here for setting my tale, and earn
Enough to see my old dreams again.
Now enough! Enough of this old yearn.
This land is not mine with cold hearts
Around like dead stones and dark odes.
These faces that I see are not mine,
Nor from the known crowd I ever loved.
The wanderer I will die down with time,
Leaving impressions of solitude self drawn.
The denouement will again inspire some
And not allow Satan bait on dreams grown.
Let this world be a home again for all,
And not treat us like migrants of the moon.
The Soul's Whisper 