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by Nevada Kerr

I belong to the mountains
To the forest behind this fence
Beyond the walls and railings
Where a commoner makes sense

Before the streetcar line
Postage stamps and pavement grime
I drove the herds and flew with birds
A stranger in my time

The murmur of an outcry
The minstrel tune I strum
A rueful dirge, an elegy
Few can hone or hum

From hobo hut to pueblo
Where journey's end recedes
I sweat blood, immune to love
Brushed off like falling leaves

Roads forbidden I reclaim
The honky-tonk without a name
The vulgar tramp, the homely swain
Who breaks the silence of the range

I flourish on this summit
Till the break of day
When morning comes I vanish
Like the mist that was the rain

Written by © Nevada Kerr
February 21, 2004.

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Created: February 2004 © Paul Kinder Last Updated: 7/2/04