Saturday, March 28, 2009
My feet are so firmly grounded on this land
Almost as if caught in the most banal quicksand
Tell me how it is to fly in a plane
Tell me, does it smell different when you breathe
Is it just in the mind, or are places actually special?
Do they really produce better fibre of cloth?
Why does it smell so good out of the cargo?
Why does the wait never disappoint?
What is it about a foreign land and crossing over?
Can only few privileged make it by providence?
Will I ever cross the seas and breathe else?
Or is it always here, waiting for the imported chocolates, perfumes and
watching films and reading books?
Will I also sit in a plane and tie my shoelaces?
I want to board a plane, break the sandbar of fortune
No more Australian beer, Swiss chocolate, Beat books and Canadian shirts
I feel blind when I eagerly ask how it all looks
I have to rely on their pictures and words
I also want...
Why are there seas? Can't we just cross on foot?
Why is there money? Can't we get generous hitch hikes?
There must be an easier way than facing a consulate
To fill bags of imported chocolates, perfumes and colorful clothes