Months pass, then years.
Life is restful, but soon enough
I begin to imagine adventures.
A new start, far away, perhaps even
the United States . . .
it’s the country that produced William Walker,
a madman who tried to conquer Nicaragua,
but it’s also the birthplace of so many poets:
Emerson
Whitman
Poe. . . .
Ever since my mother left me
in that cattle pasture, I’ve felt like a wanderer,
homeless.
Now I dream of roaming in a new way,
voluntarily, instead of by abandonment.