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Wayward Ones

We are wayward ones, the lot of us
who pile up riches in little rooms
and search the roadside for clues
to nature’s bountiful fortunes,
aspiring to capture the spirit who bestows them
and rob it of this much-coveted gem

With eyes that gaze heavenwards
our souls aspire to fly,
and we waylay all grounded, earthly thoughts
of things we can’t beautify;
vagrants on life’s ruthless way
we are; the pagans of today

Intricate wording and inspired awe
for which we would gladly trade body for soul
is never guaranteed to wash ashore
our minds, and sometimes in the cold
we must wander wayward
unable to distinguish between gems and dirt

And wayward do we often trace the trail
of giants who had better minds than ours,
when we (and we do sometimes) fail
we seek them out, and pause for hours
to behold spectres of the sentences
which defy our all-too-worldly senses

We aspire to become what we are not,
and such can never like that which we are –
we want to reach out and take a shot
at the tiny, white-hot, all-too-distant stars
whose mere existence, without flaw,
for hours keep us locked in awe

Withhold our dreams we can’t – achieve them neither,
but still we hold our breaths in sweet suspense
for a glimpse of inspiration, if not, rather
a sight to produce one all-saying sentence
which makes clear for the world what we
don’t understand, but still pen down with glee

It’s like a never-ending pilgrimage
where, once you reach your yearned-for destination
you realize that lost without a trace
is every reason you had for the expedition –
wayward you were, and wayward you remain
as long as from beauty, art and dreams you can’t
refrain

Each follows each on this un-ending trail,
and all we fellow-travellers are lost
in our pursuit of this, our Holy Grail,
which no-one values anymore, no host
willingly will shelter from the cold;
it is now just a relic from the days of old

So what shall we do – we wayward ones
who value lost grandeur and hopelessly aspire
to live up to giant’s work, and find our homes
in dreams, in nature – on a funeral pyre?
We nonetheless embody hopes that stay
for future happiness to pave the way

As wayward as we are – we’re still imbued
with abilities to see past superstitions and facts,
and show the world itself in such a hue
that nature too looks awestruck on to these, our texts
(that nothing have to do with reality
and therefore contain the most serene beauty)

So let no fear deter us from our designated path
although the road is long and not sufficiently marked,
though our deeds may seem so small and easily dwarfed
and we often feel like groping in the dark;
for remember: The bridges that we cross today
were made by ones who went before and knew the way

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