They´ve called me wayward as the wind
that blows as ages yore; 
I´ve wandered for a thousand years,
I´ll wander thousand more.

I´m far as dreams, which in the morn
your memory still haunt;
near as the moon, that in a lake
your grasping fingers taunts.

How can you trust me? Like the air
between the earth and sky
I will not catch you when you fall,
but teach you how to fly.

Now city streets are my domain,
as once deserted ways,
like human hearts a wilderness,
I walk their hidden maze;

I will elude you like the breeze
unseen amidst the crowd;
I would be everywhere you turn,
a guest you can´t keep out;

Perhaps I´m wearing hobo rags
and squint at you an eye
while you, on daily business bent,
are sure to pass me by.

You´ll never know me just from books,
my masks the scholars fool:
The map is not the territory,
the facet´s not the jewel.

© 2005 Michaela Macha

License: This poem may be freely distributed, provided it remains
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This work by Michaela Macha is licensed
under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives License.

Artwork by Natasa Ilincic.