Vagabondism

Strange to experience
As means to forgetting,
But that’s dream and that’s life

As a beast with a brain.
We feel sorry for you,
Although you are our homes,

Our inns, our way stations,
Our trading posts, our maps,
Our caves of sighing breath.

We wander. None of us
Is likely to remain
Confined to one soul long.

Our very usefulness
Is our extravagance.
If we hadn’t wandered

Through many other thoughts,
Winding conversations,
Thousands, millions of heads,

We wouldn’t have arrived,
You wouldn’t have us here
With you, collecting you

From the experience
You process to forget,
Your life a day and night

In the years of our lives,
A few hours, but such views.
We will remember you.