The Sojourner

The land wreathes in rhythm; And caressed with cruel history and rough tenderness, Scratching the skin of my patience. Absorbed with the shock, I'm suspicious of this happiness Like I've been. The dearth of space And the eloquent but emptiness of time, Betrays me to presently squash and squander my solitude I recognize this place, This wilderness men call life I've been here once, Maybe more and more Corollary to the indelible pregnancy Of this thorns And the profuse smiles in my wrinkles Swam the Mediterranean And climbed the Everest But the pastures have all been eaten by termites. Can't climb Kilimanjaro again; Not because it's low, But because it's home. Now the sojourner is back With more debt Clinging to the breast of silence And succouring in the navel of sighs without relief.