Prayer to a Nomad
O Nomad,
Look at my hand,
cramped with the burden of banal routine
callused with the hardness of hustle culture
crushed by the demands of utilitarian lovers
scalded with the blazes of unreal expectations,
it has forgotten
how to touch,
how to sweat,
how to caress,
how to grow nails.
Where the breath comes from and goes to
where the cigar smoke disappears to
where the plant's arms point towards
where the planets dance on steroids
where the eagles build their Aeries
where the NaCl quench the yearning
where new galaxies erupt into existence
where ancient fossils lie in quiescence
where the command "Be!" reverberates
where the Shiva sees and annihilates
there,
O Nomad,
there lies the balm to my injuries
there resounds the psalm to my grievings
there grows the Aloe Vera for my crevices
the magic touch of healing stays there.
Will you,
O Nomad,
take my cramped, callused, crushed, scalded hand
and take me there?
(The 'where' part has a feel of something which is either impossible or at least difficult to be touched by our current lifestyle which crushes, calluses, scalds the hand of an individual