I am the sufferer
of an unconquerable kindness.

No highs of hatred, no fevers of vengeance,
no radical desires, no needs too strong;
no towers, tall and imposing – I’ve never built,
I know not the freedoms of unimpeded rage,
the performance of needless loves.

No might makes right here, I never push through.
My heels never dig deep, merely
I’ll point to the sky. Motion
to the moon.
I’ve no chamber that houses ire, only rooms I rent
to momentary anger, momentary doubt.

I raise flowers.
I’ve my garden. The blooms, shoots, stems, and leafs.
They know only of the mission:
Drink, eat,
reach for light and starlight,
grow,
die,
rebirth (or not),
be and be and be.

My soles wear, upon this most unerring of roads,
a road with no turns, no forks, no hills, no lodges;
however, there’s a horizon – far off and boundless.

I wish you all luck. I wish you steadfastness.
I wish you recognition for the courage you have shown.

How could I not wish you luck
and commend your valiance and heart?

It is, after all, a long journey home.