The Wander's Illusion

        When I came from my land
        if I really came from my land
        (am I not dead there?),
        the rippling of the river
        murmured faintly to me
        that I sould remain
        there where she parted from me.

        The pale dead
        not vanishing in the afternoon
        they seemed to tell me
        that it was impossible to return
        because everything is the result
        of already having been born there.

        When I came, if I really came
        from somewhere going to somewhere else
        the world turned, alien
        to my small self
        and in its turning I realized
        that no one ever goes away
        or comes back from anywhere.

        That we carry things along with us
        the treasure box of our life
        a rigid frame of bronze
        around our most anonymous cell
        and a call, a laugh, a voice
        resounds incessantly
        inside our depeest walls.

        New things which happen,
        whet our hunger for basic food.
        Our discoveries are masks
        over an even darker reality,
        that wound we bear
        on the skin of our souls.

        When I came from my land,
        I didn't come - I got lost in space
        in the illusion of having left.
        Poor me, I never left
        I'm still there, buried
        beneath the gentle words
        beneath the black shadows
        beneath the golden ornaments
        beneath the generations
        beneath my own self. I know,
        this living being, deceived
        and deceitful.