The blossoms

to the roots,
the birds to their old nests,
spring to its anonymity
and the tide to the ocean-
all have returned, save I
an exile, floating wanderer,
called river, longing to go back
fruitlessly, spend
long years, lost in thought.
To be able or not to be able
to migrate myself across
the years to my source
is vain. My life in former days
has become misted as of a dream
so may this present one too, grow
old into the past. The deep longing
is itself home.



Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
Read 13 times
Written on 2025-04-22 at 02:23

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