(A man of the road tale of woe.)
I’ve got my belongings wrapped
in a polka-dot handkerchief
on a pole dangling over my back
as I walk along this railway track.
My clothes are all tattered and torn
with patches here and there
as I follow down this line
with my feet bare.
I cannot help remembering what I left behind,
because people won’t let me forget.
They said if I became a man of the road
I’d always live to regret.
I became a man of the road
or whatever you want to call me
and I found what they said
was true after all.
I found that it isn’t greener
on the other side of the hill
that I should have stayed where I was
even though I’d had my fill.
I found that home
is where the heart lies
and that we should ignore
when the call of the wild cries
or else you’ll become like me
a roamer without a home.
Date unknown
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem