Poem 3


I put myself on foreign land
in search of Travellers’ Gold;
but faces there, all fresh, but bland,
turned my elation cold.

The boundaries all seemed to heed
were of visage and speech —
’Twas arduous, thus, to proceed
and isolation breach.

One’s countenance does not decide
the order of their heart.
Have not a million men yet died
to wisdom such impart?

And now, perhaps, unknowingly
I’ve won myself detest.
An act of mindful courtesy
becomes this strained request.


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