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The Wanderer
I come here from the stars, alone.
The way is twisted, the deeps moan.
I wander on, but am seldom gay,
and keep on asking, "What is the way?"
All space is dark, the sun is cold.
The flowers are pale and life is old.
Talk that is not noise is getting rare.
I seem to be a stranger everywhere.
Where are you world that's all my own?
Longed for and sought for, but never known.
The cosmos that is as green as hope.
One fiercely flowered starward slope.
The world where all my dead friends can still talk,
tell a joke, though white as chalk.
The universe that talks my talk
and walks my walk.
I wander on and wonder why I am seldom gay
and keep on asking "What is the way?"
"Where are you?" a ghostly answer comes from space.
"Where you are, there is your place."
-- Izzy Beretta
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