Wanderer's Poems

Who is whispering a long-lost tune? Let the dead who have fallen into the flower land not be able to sleep peacefully Who is silently holding up the broken sword? Carve an everlasting curse on the mottled stone tablet The black hair beside the ears caresses the side of the face after years of baptism The swaying clothes cut the bowstrings of the gods The weeds we stepped on back then are now regenerated, bathed in sunshine and rain, crawling among the mud and decaying debris, growing and flourishing year after year. Please sit down with peace of mind my friend Follow me and compose a free verse in praise of the legend of the wanderer.