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You Have Travelled The Distant Places Of This World

your work is confrontational with
a lot of faces and races
you have a hard time with the black ones and
the yellow ones
and their accents you call as barbarians
of your age and taste
you struggle to move to the top
to control and be the master
it is like
everyone is an enemy and
there is always the suspicion that this friend
is here to kill you
for he too must go to the top
without you

you are getting bald
on the side of your head the white hairs are popping out
you need a walk by the shores of the sea
you need this Confucian walk for a hundred years
to think and be whole
amidst the wars you have created
or imagined

you have travelled the distant places of the world
and you are holding the globe
with your hands
the red dots the stars marking the lines
the shapes of cities
are all in your head

and then you confront me and plainly say
you are unhappy fighting this
kind of war this tugging of ropes
among countries

on a Sunday morning you call me by your cellphone
you are back to your father's ricefield
the one he plowed when he was still alive
the mud that grew the rice grains
the one that sent you to the national university

you say you want your feet bare
and be muddy you say you want to learn how the farmers work
what their hopes and dreams are
you laugh with them
you are learning now

you are whole again you are telling me
you finally found your home this place where they do not know
how to write

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