Who am I to blame the broken?
Who am I to look lowly upon
those who walk alone, who limp
in the shadows of doorways,
who have come slowly, then gone
with the night, to no home and no one.
Who am I to refuse such a traveler?
For I've seen in their eyes a thousand songs
that I've sang in my heart, and a thousand roads
to which my own heart belongs,
and my feet, though weary, have not
traveled long. So I walk
with no home and no one.
Who am I to follow their words?
It is my soul that instructs, that illumines my way
down a road of illusion, for distance is time
and this path is constructed by the time
that we claim. But we are the truth, or so
we become. I look at the weary
and the hells they have flown, and offer
a shelter, a new view of the sun --
I am a home with no path and no one.