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Call me Nomad

Call me nomad.
Call me wanderer.
Call me woman without a home.
My home is in my hand.
My home is in my heart.
My home is in a piece of cloth,
Embroidered with a bird.

I wander,
With the ghosts of the tree,
Over the earth’s green, neglected bones.
I do not follow the urgent calls,
And, the feet of marching men.
I follow the flowers of desert rains.
I follow the halos and rainbows,
Dissolving into invisible sands.

The world is going its own way,
But, I am going mine.

Call me nomad.
Call me dreamer.
Call me woman on the loose.
My home is in your arms.
My home is in your thoughts.
My home is in a perfumed poem,
You gave me long ago.

I am dreaming,
With the fluid sky,
Into the stone’s neglected breath.
I do not follow the nightmares,
That others call their own.
I follow the footsteps of changing tides.
I follow the echoes of fire in the sea,
Dissolving into invisible lands.

Call me nomad.
Call me foolish.
Call me woman without fear.
My home is neither far nor near.
My home is wherever you happen to be,
With the bones of the earth,
With the ghosts of the tree,
With the rain in the desert,
The fire in the sea.
My home is beside you,
And, no matter where,
If that’s where you are,

I am going to be there.

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