The pilgrim’s progress,
the prophet’s regress.

The soul’s great succes
in the middle of the mess.

The most distant digression
on which you planted your tag.

That song about roaming
you picked up on the road.

The blood you spilled for your roots,
your family, your ancestors,
the name you carry.

And then the blood you spilled for the orphans.

What your hands built;
who your heart couldn’t release.

What your tongue can’t reach
through the bottleneck,
it waits for, mouth tilted;
sun in eyes.


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