A Name Waiting For Me

I don’t think of my old name,

Of my friends I left back home,

Or from whence I came,

The roots I’d left to roam.

I think no longer of the green, luscious leaves,

Or the warm mist of the jungle,

The gargantuan, dark trees,

Or the vines and budding honeysuckle.

No longer of mother’s lullabies,

And father’s drunken songs;

Of the grass lit up by fireflies,

When the woods echoed our calls.

When the moon heard our howls and cries,

When the thickets echoed our chorus,

We were at our smallest size,

Yet giants of the forest.

Now, I’m a stranger in every land I greet,

A newcomer ‘round every part,

Each home after home more incomplete,

For every place is a wretched, new start.

So I travel without a name, with no tale nor no story,

Just a flickering will, and a wilted, withering body.

A pilgrim with a precarious fate,

And a brighter future to await.

For yes, the way of the traveler is one that is lonely,

But to find a home, one must make this difficult journey.

And once I arrive, once I find my place to be,

I know for certain, there will be a name waiting for me.