Submitted by Steven


You stand at the gates of the walled city
Looking west through shimmering haze
Watching the caravan’s approach
From the deserts of the western lands

I ride with the caravan
Returning from a harsh, hard journey
Leaving as a boy I return as a man,
Having travelled many years
And living many lives.

The caravan stops and you approach
My strange dress surprises you;
Priestess, I have been to many cities
And in each, adopted their ways.

Then when we speak you learn
I do not see the world as others do;
For I have studied with sages and magi
Who shared their wondrous philosophies.

I wear these beliefs as I wear their clothes,
And feel blessed to have travelled
But Priestess, the people were not my kin
So I come to you, dusty, dry and tired.


I beg you, wipe the dust from my face
Then bathe me, touch me and remind me
That the lives of lover’s are
The lives of thieves
And I can finally be home again.