Pilgrim

I am not from here

I have travelled many miles to this place

Strange place

Strange odor

Queer air

Bugs and dung

Vines and twigs

Not forgetting, fleas.

What am I doing here?

Too many rocks and trees

In short, countless obstacles

My staff, shortened

Shortened by the weight of my support

The leather satchel is emptied

Of dried fruits and nuts

Grey hood of mine, heavy with mist and dust

Ached feet

Growling belly

Heavy eyelids, deprived from sleep

Knock knock rickety fingers upon the wooden door

None to answer

None to grant a wish

Warm bed, water to suit my feet…dream on.

Hot soup for my belly

Will this journey end?

But, ahead I must continue

I must reach the end

Answers surely lie there

Rest surely awaits

I am a passerby, stranger

Not from here

I seek my home

Aye may I find it soon.