The traveler is called to move. What breath rendered your sail? Seeker, what are you searching for?
I’ve come to traverse, to walk across lands, barren and lush, over mountains, overseas, use my feet, trot and flee, move from tree to tree, from village to village. I came here to see.
Traveler, what makes your heart wonder? What do you seek?
The birds were nesting in the house that sheltered me. They brought twigs through the roof’s tiny crack, warming their offspring.
Traveler, what do you seek?
The lake was foggy, on the day my mother gave birth to me. So they say. My first sight caught the Goddess’s long, green hair. She was there, naked. So was I. My mother cried with relief. From now on, you shall sing, she said and sighed, still in short trembles. Covered with pinkish ooze.
Traveler, what do you seek?
The blue jays were singing, heralding spring. I heard a tree branch wobble in wind. Blue feathers started to twirl in sound, as some grandmothers opened their gowns. Garnished in omens of moon’s silver, they heard my first cries and followed my ground.
Traveler, what do you seek?
My mother was a woman, simple and stern. She lent me her eyes and told me to burn. Her heart was blue, mine was red. Our breath came together and quested a twirl. As the earth saw us, the soil was cast to bring on my chest the omnivast.
Traveler, what does your heart sing?
I’m looking for my hands, my toes and my feet, my heart, my belly, and my sheet. That paper, that was blank as I came into this world and has been scripted as I walked miles yonder umbilical cords.
Traveler, what does your heart sing?
The winds weave me in arrows, and the bow is the land. Tauten one’s life span over webs of worn hands, and it may propel old skulls to dance.