He was thirty-three when he decided
To leave, the familiar feel of his country home,
Little village an abode, to his childhood dreams
And wildest hopes.
Bought a one-way ticket to the East, tracing
Back the path of a dawning sun, seeking
New beginnings a life, of discoveries adventures
In search of who he truly is, what he might become.
Escaping Roman vices he encounters others
Sets himself free ignoring the language
Communicates with locals through signs gestures
Leading him to uncover a world, diverse
Much richer than his imagination
Fascinated by colours a fantasy ignites,
He embarks in trading materials
Ethnic clothing adorning objects to bring back
To the West where the only shade in vogue
Was black. He walks and hops on busses
Unknown destinations guided by an instinct
To acquaint himself with Chinese tribes
Be welcomed as he knows how
To gain people’s fondness with a smile, he wrote
Diaries a testimony of his tour, around the globe
Crossing oceans to Brazil,
Met the shamans drank ayahuasca learnt
Cultures and traditions felt, smart, wiser for he had
Seen more than he ever could have dreamt or hoped,
Though on the last lines of December
Two thousand and three I peeked on a page in red
“I am tired and wonder when, will this search end?”
Startlingly recognising the words the same
I had written on countless diaries of my own
So many times before. Endeared I felt close.
[Featured artwork: A poster of women wearing Qipao in the 1920s/30s]