➤ Banner: The Traveler by Lyubov Popova
Can I, a traveler make
And take myself to some distant land
And agitate my fattened soul
That fed on the grain, gnawed the bone,
And slept under an ancestral moon?
Can I, seeking the pleasure of my heart,
Rise with the sun and circle round
To see another side of the golden face,
Standing where I never stood?
But then what is it that I seek away from home?
If home is my home, and my place is my place,
Then why do I wander in my mind,
Seeking something more than all the things that are mine?
Is there a rot that I never knew,
Festering deep, or do I hear the hushed lure
That goes not through the senses
But directly to the soul beckons,
And I listen cause I never heard it before?
The quickening of the blood,
And the weary wine-full eyes,
The knots in the feet,
And the hands stained with lines,
These have I desired with great desire,
Yet have not wrought it to flesh.
Cowardice or piety;
Which one is the truth?
Which one is the lie?
I stand stranded and the stars above flee,
The wind wipes the ages with glee;
And I, sentinel, watch the seasons turn
And grieve for what I cannot mourn.
