Near his table rests a glass of water;
Through his window he glances at passersby;
He observes and always waits, waits, waits.
Bitterness nourishes his being;
Subjected to misunderstandings
And false airs of ‘people’
He is a prisoner.
He sits, hands cupped around his chin
In his dreaming, his spirits escape
The world of hardships
And travel in the expanses of the wild blue sky.
He leans on his table, half worried, half-contented.
In this place of his there is no compassion;
Evil prowls around its prey;
Rancor sings its melody of morning.
A stranger to his land,
He melancholically sips from his glass—
A sip of freedom.
Marginalized and needy,
Very far is the wind of liberty blowing for him
He is clandestine, always without address,
Not a nomad, but a recluse in the midst of humanity.
In his unbroken crystal enclosure
He follows the echoes of his silent screams.
A rock of madness, only solitude answers him.
He startles! His heart rapidly beats!
He rises from his bed!
Ah! It’s only a nightmare! •
In Nomad, a refugee poet