Passage Thoughts

There are caravans passing by,
Painted with designs of an eye
Surrounded by glowing lines.
Strange women peer out from them.
I am sure I saw one with a gem
Planted in her navel's confines.

I follow them with one eye,
Those strange wagons passing by,
While I feed the chickens with the other.
I cannot help but wonder
What it would be like to thunder
Along the roads, without father or mother.

Oh, there would be wet grass sometimes,
And others no one willing to pay a dime,
Or give wanderers a chance.
And I cannot wear a toy
In my navel for another's joy,
And I do not know how to really dance.

But I haven't traveled; I do not know.
Can anything compare to where one can go,
Instead of being kept on a shelf?
Does not one still catch one's breath,
And feel beyond call and reach of death
When a new horizon appears, like life itself?