Tag Archives: exile and wandering

The Eternal Hitchhiker

Posted in Poetry English by

A cosmic fable of kindness, exhaustion, and the price of wandering.

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to reach some peaceful planet,

away from the chaos and the raging wars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he pays a certain heavy price

He pays it with a piece of his heart,

each time, sadly, an odd roll of the dice

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to find light, joy, and happiness,

within the darkness that kills and scars

But each time he hitches a ride,

he realizes what has always been clear

He can give happiness - anytime to anyone,

but to be unhappy forever is his only fear

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People call him the eternal hitchhiker;

he hitchhikes rides on the shooting stars

Hoping to finally rest and laugh aloud,

amongst the butterflies and a million flowers

But each time he hitches a ride,

his dreams are burnt and turn into cinders

It’s time to stop hitching rides forever;

it’s time to finally sleep in the eternal winters

The Miserable End of a Failed Hero

Posted in Poetry English by

A brutal dialogue between a broken mortal and a mocking god.

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Receding deep into yourself, being enfolded in layers,

blanking out the chaos of complicated relationships

Tightly wrapped within a cocoon of your icy, cold self,

the harsh and cruel reality is the one and final eclipse

That is your nirvana, that is your long, torturous bliss,

that’s what’s written by fate, in all its useless scripts

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Your cocoon will hang forever - the dangling shell,

on a grey cracked wall, in the hall of eternal sadness

There it will hang, and you will squirm deep within,

away from the merry crowds, the throbbing madness

That will be your heaven, and that will be your hell,

both equally quiet, under the ever-ruling darkness

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When the bored God visits and knocks at the cocoon,

asking if you are still alive within the silent confines

You will scream from within, a long tormented wail,

‘I did what you asked me to do, I followed all the lines

I crushed my own ego, I buried it deep and still alive,

damning myself to patience, despite all the odd signs’

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And the God will laugh, He will laugh long and hard,

‘you pathetic asshole, you miserably crawling bastard

You tried to fight fate, but you failed to learn from life,

you were no crowned hero, you were merely a dastard

Now burn forever in your heaven, as it is also your hell,

self-torture is the only art you have really mastered’

Where is My Home?

Posted in Poetry English by

“A gypsy searching for a forsaken tribe, a vagabond cursed to wander—this is the cry of everyone who’s ever felt they don’t belong.” A haunting, repetitive verse exploring the deep human need for belonging through the metaphor of homelessness—both physical and spiritual. The poem’s refrain “Where is my home and where I am going to sleep?” echoes through various landscapes—deserts, wastelands, bustling towns, and silent valleys—as the narrator confronts regret, shame, desire, guilt, and lost faith.

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

Do I find it in the blistering and thirsty wilderness,

me and my regretful tears, in all bitterness?

Or is it in the blindingly white and icy wastelands,

me and my shame, my trembling and shaking hands?

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

Do I find it in the bustling and noisy towns,

me and desires, lust, and greed wearing their thorny crowns?

Or is it in the vast and silent valleys,

my faith and I, destined to walk in separate alleys?

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

Do I find it near the Tomb of the Lonely Saint,

me and my deceit, friends and partners, yet quaint?

Or is it shrouded within the ashes of a dead volcano,

me and my guilt, my arch nemesis, as we know?

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

I am a gypsy in search of my long-forsaken tribe,

without my people, I am dead, as written by the scribe

I am a vagabond at heart, forever lost and eternally cursed,

though in case of self-hatred, I am quite well-versed