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On the Road
(© Matilda Marks)

They've called me wayward as the wind
that blows as ages yore;
I've wandered for a thousand years,
I'll wander thousand more.

I'm far as dreams, which in the morn
your memory still haunt;
near as the moon, that in a lake
your grasping fingers taunts.

How can you trust me? Like the air
between the earth and sky
I will not catch you when you fall,
but teach you how to fly.

Now city streets are my domain,
as once deserted ways,
like human hearts a wilderness,
I walk their hidden maze;

I will elude you like the breeze
unseen amidst the crowd;
I would be everywhere you turn,
a guest you can't keep out;

Perhaps I'm wearing hobo rags
and squint at you an eye
while you, on daily business bent,
are sure to pass me by.

You'll never know me just from books,
my masks the scholars fool:
The map is not the territory,
the facet´s not the jewel.

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Last Update: Sunday, January 1, 2006