This new day that approaches
Like the pale sand
Of a foreign land,
My bed a little boat
Still afloat
On the dark waves of night.
Yesterday's folk, all left behind
In the old country, their kind
Looks, as I looked away
Still aching in my mind.
The window slowly fills with light;
The keel digs in through the foam--
What is this strange new day
That I will call home?
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ResponderEliminarI should have posted this poem of Mike's weeks ago, but I couldn't find anything cool to comment or embellish it. Then again, it doesn't need any of that. But I'm sure any of us who's a migrant, an expat, a driter or wanderer, knows this feeling quite intimately.
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