A Poem of Separation

Read half a poem of Walt Whitman
When I caught myself escaping
to my native shore
while you were still asleep

Through the mist of the early dawn
I heard your whisper
that you are not a song
but a poem of separation

And when in the evening you return
I see an injured poem
Bleeding like the dying soldiers
On the faraway hills of the Northern land

In the distant days when you were only a child
You used to dream of being a man of war
Now after losing all the battles you have fought
You still long to be a better soldier

And after years of escape and separation
You still recollect those native hills
Those prayer-flags, the echo of
the conches and highland dogs
Disturbing the still night
of the nomad valley

For long you have wandered over alien seas
Singing alien songs; stoned in discotheques.
But in your eyes I see the longing
for the Cold Mountain songs and
The long march back to our long lost home

You are a bridge to the future
for the poets and patriots:
You sing songs of sacrifice
And you beat the drums of destiny

And who comes to you
Must search for inspiration
In the very few lines
Of an injured poem

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