I no longer write of loneliness,
It has enough food in the world;
Nor about love either,
There are enough detractors.
Why not, I said to myself,
Just walk about, without aim?
It may be, not having a subject,
The joy of motion creates itself.
My feet joyfully remember their past,
Tickle of grass, bruise of stones,
Clasp of mud--all earth's pull
And possessiveness.
Now I feel quite bare, exposed,
My thoughts underfoot in lushest green,
And no words to think me,
Nor myself distract.
I hear the birds call to one another;
Their inhuman cries gladden my soul,
They mark a boundary of the sacred
That in a distant time pierced myfeet.
A light breeze touches my face,
I feel the longing beneath human speech,
Like ashes upon my tongue,
And my feet shudder where they fall.
-- Gémino H. Abad
for discussion, E-105 classes
