Polishing my square-toed brogues,
I think about journey, that measure
of breaking out of myself
which never leaves me.
I catch each venture like a living thing;
improvised, it cuts free — shoe-inviting,
pressing the day; my heart drums fast, faster.
I tell myself, Your feet have never
failed you . . . Whatever happens,
the journey's always there:
sometimes dark, sometimes clear,
the way — on this road you're wedded
to — a mountain will appear, climbing
suddenly out of a wall of mist.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem