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There sleeps the past..
In some city too far off.
There peeps the future..
In some other city too far off.
Here breathes the present..
In this city too near, too here.
Too warm for touch,
Too close for comfort.
Too real to be strange,
Too unreal to belong.
So quick is the heart to flutter..
Its lashed lids; its wispy wings.
Yet, sealing in dreams for new stars..
Yet, reeling in flights to new neighbors.
For ever in denial; for ever on the run..
Of that which settles; from that which attaches.
Waiting in patience,
Braving the heat of the familiar.
Craving the cold of the strange.
Waiting in hope,
Yet another pasture dusty and fresh.
Yet another start crusty and brash.
For the next home too far off..
For the next people too close by.
Ever unsettled, ever flowing, ever fleeing, ever seeking..
The nomadic heart – the one that lives too far off, beats too far away.