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The Blood of My Ancestors

Wanderer's blood coursed through my ancestors' veins,
Boiling under wind-stretched sails off Africa’s coast,
Thousands of miles from their European homes.
Their blood stirred at the vast mysteries before them,
Legends and rumors of the dark continent, devourer of men,
Pulsating through their thoughts
As they stepped onto the red soil for the first time.
Their wanderlust stirs and boils within my blood too.
Echoes of the distant past rushing through me at the sight of Snow Mountain,
Burning lungs and painful satisfaction on the slopes of a Tiger Leaping Gorge,
Himalayan wind raging in the night against the window shutters of my room
Like the remnants of some rustic song composed a thousand years ago.
The world intoxicates me with her hidden beauties,
And taunts me with her ancient virtue.
Her histories haunt and humble me.
She consumes me like the hundred thousand poets before me;
I want to kiss her face; I want to drink her wine,
And write my poems upon the surfaces of her body.
Even if she eventually tramples over me,
Crushing my body into her soft rich soil,
I will love her forever,
For my home is here; my home is nowhere.
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