I started toddling at seven months,
Walking the roads as from twelve
Shaping my feet from sands and mud upon bumps
Frequenting the paths to hell and into which I delve

From the spittle of the seas to the flayed clay of aging silt
It’s the same old story frequently told in tears
Moaning and mourning are kinsmen in the compound of guilt
Where ancestral rocks and whetstones gather moss in pairs

I have journeyed on, night and day, stumbling
And falling, rising and schlepping determinedly ahead,
A bag of sorrows on my back, encountering no nibling
It’s a one-man tiring journey accompanied by dread

When the road is bifurcated, I gamble on my choice of route,
Searching stars at nights to guide me on paths of clearer lineage
I borrow the gimlet eyes of crickets to seek out wedges to uproot,
Knowing well what I desire in my pilgrimage

So far, it’s been one Hell of a road
So frighteningly long and sinuous —tumultuous
Harbouring wildernesses, dens and gold,
Yet those who tread on it are serious and sensuous.

It plies mountains, rugged and brutal, with sweltering breeze blown
On flat land and deserts, it hurts and fries the naked feet
On rainy, starless nights, you’re on your own.
Above restless crests of sea waves, it’s like a wet, riotous street.

Trust me, it’s one road upon which I’d hesitate to tread again,
Even if the lights of the sun and the moon promise to accompany me
Oh, no, I’d prefer to board the wings of a tern, even in rain,
And keep warm with the feathers above the knee.