Lament Of Blood

What angle of my heritage, makes me,
Makes me a nomad, unable to settle anywhere?
There must have been an Arab, sometime,
Who left these shores for Mecca, and decided
To keep going, never returning to what he'd
Had for so long. For that is how I feel:
Like I've been put here, with no knowledge
Of local customs, and no weapons with which
To defend my heart, exposed and weak
To the acidious waves. I have looked for
Good friends, in these steppes. I rarely wanted
To keep any of them, and those I wanted to
Keep I did not know how. How about love,
That is surely a consolation? But what
Language to use? They're all the same
But I speak them so differently, so inaudibly.
I vehemently wait for something new
From the mouth of something old. I
Must keep looking but the circle has been
Circumnavigated so many times.
I remember beginning to hope, as if it were
Yesterdat. If it's not yesterday its
Always tomorrow. My dreams are a chameleon,
They change colour to blend in with their
Surroundings, but they never succeed: the rugged
Spines stick out like sunlight in a storm.
Never before have I been so desperate
For escape, and the constant need for
Escape. But never before have I been so
Incapable of taking that first step;
Of taking any step! I wonder, what my
Roving ancestor left behind when he said
Farewell? Did he only leave when he had
Something here to fall back on? Did the
Ship only sail when his house stood erect?
I must be like him - if only I knew his name -
We can only move, once we're happy
Where we are! A pathetic irony!
I only wait for the voice of happiness so I
Can leave it behind. And when I am
Where and with who I want to be,
I hear a cacophony of failures, and
It overwhelms me because they are all
Shouting in voices I cannot understand.
O Arab of such distant time, of mine
Flesh and blood: Explain to me why,
I am staying to fight, exposing myself
To piercing wounds that leave me breathless,
When; all I want to do, is leave!