Where in the world do I come from?
I am not of here, and not of there,
And harping in the twilight, my hair
Is ruffled by no breeze that blows
From a country that any man knows.
Child of no ancient house or blood,
No incense-filled and dim childhood,
But no bright light of blooded pride
Stretching further back than memories ride.
Child of no country of deserts or stones,
No rolling grasslands or mountains' bones;
No ocean-longing, and no forest deep
Has shattered or sheltered me or ruined my sleep.
Child of nothing, of parents who loved me,
Who would not tell me what was of me,
Who did not tell me of memories of exile
And who had not dwelt here only a while.
And I never thought that strange at all
Until into the world they let me fall
And I realized that others either thought
Of their homes forever, or a home sought.
What does it mean, that I have no home,
No longing exile for a place I dare not roam,
No proud memory of blood, to say, "I am this?"
What does it mean, to have no rooted bliss?
What am I?
Not wild in heart, and not wild in mind,
But chained close behind crystalline walls,
By the ways that others have called confined.
They have laughed at me, and called me blind,
And between me and them a veil forever falls.
But what about those who must share my cage?
For them, it seems, I am too much like light,
That is bent, and bounces, and cannot hold rage
Against those who constantly rewrite the page.
Their red and clinging rage puts me to flight.
I am not this, and I am not that. My empathy
With both causes comes upon me in arguments,
And solidifies into stone, and paralyzes me.
While others speak, I see what they cannot see,
And the loss of certainty my soul laments.
Forever, then, I am in exile from the thoughts
That seem to irradiate most minds.
I cannot bind myself forever, having sought
Most of my life to avoid being caught
In the certainty they love and which I think blinds.
What do I love?
Forests deep with the sunlight on their leaves,
And crashing seas of a mild and bathing blue-green,
And the small flickers under the darkling eaves
Of a vision that my mind cannot be sure it has seen.
I love those things that do not really exist,
Or at least are not there when I have most wished.
