In walking down a beaten dirt road
I felt as though the world were turning
away from me, beneath me in a circle,
to keep me searching.
Travel, sometimes, is searching,
but is mostly masochism.
The road seemed endless,
forever endless.
The I realized the road was searching.
I was not what's been found.
The road was walking away from me.
The nearby grasses began to murmur
against myself and the road-
it said things we could not bear
to hear alone. We hadn't the strength.
The fields are sometimes brutal.
The road began to walk into me,
to search my bones and hunt
through the boxes in my mind.
In me it found no comfort,
and left me, suddenly alone and without direction.
I saw it walking away from me.
5 august o8
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Real poetic dear Rebe. More than 10 marks