We travel like other people, but we return to nowhere. As if traveling is the way of the clouds. We have buried our loved ones in the darkness of the clouds, between the roots of the trees.
And we said to our wives: go on giving birth to people like us for hundreds of years so we can complete this journey
To the hour of a country, to a meter of the impossible
We travel in the carriages of the psalms, sleep in the tent of the prophets and come out of the speech of the gypsies.
We measure space with a hoopoe's beak or sing to while away the distance and cleanse the light of the moon.
Your path is long so dream of seven women to bear this long path on your shoulders. Shake for them palm trees so as to know their names and who'll be the mother of the boy of Galilee.
We have a country of words. Speak speak so I can put my road on a stone of a stone.
We have a country of words. Speak speak so we may know the end of this travel.
I read this in today's NY Times and was so moved by it I wanted to share it with you. The voice died Saturday night. While some of his work was political, he was most proud of his more personal work. I read this and thought of the many who walk without a country to return to.