The miles i traveled mock at me through the clatter of my chains of bondage.
Come far i might have, to a few i am still at home.
How does the river tell the spring, it's headed for the ocean ?
Whisper the songs of pain from the graves,
"Behold! the liberated one, you are a myth, for we are still alive".
Stranger i am, to my own skin.
Stranger was i to the kin,
awaiting to weigh me with their social scales.
Stranger i choose to be.
Awake, i dream of the shores of solitude far away from here.
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11 years ago
2 comments:
Absolutely beautiful! This could have been a passage from Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
I especially love the line "How does the river tell the spring, it's headed for the ocean ?"
\p/
M,
That's too kind of you..
I could only find so many words to put my feelings in. Glad you could see through the words..
\m/
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