Beneath some remarkable skies;

Clocks tick strangely;

Like some sort of Dali world;

Ticking hypnotically.

I have "writers block" at the moment.

Despite this;

I go hitchhiking;

Living inside my tent.

Sleeping here and there in cabins of train compartments.

And begging for work to make some cash;

From place to isolated place.

Sometimes sleeping under the tall trees and the moon.

I lend my talk;

To those that lead a life uncommon.

But I listen to everything that everyone has to say;

Every time I catch a truck and the good man who drives.

Words enslave nobody here;

Voices resound with freedom;

And the unbelievers need encouragement;

To join the army;

I dont make this is a mission;

But I let the world be.

If praying was enough;

All our problems would have gone by now.

Still, when I am in a picturesque old farmhouse;

The farmers family would give me a large breakfast;

And I would stand in the morning on the top of a tall hill;

Using my eyes and nose, admiring the life of all beings;

Just like staying in a raft on the Mississippi;

Like Huck did.

That world goes by with the flowing waters;

The water cress, the banks, the markets and the sunsets.



I get tired;

Weary;

But not worn out.

So I live in this tent.

I love to live in this tent.