The homeless man can only,
Stitch cotton bricks around him.

And march on dunes, on rocks,
And across wadis and moist beds.

While over near the Pacific Ocean, you see hundreds
Of turtles, rushing to the ocean tide,

Not knowing what lies inside,
This mammoth saline fortress.

Life is only a bounty, that in the absence,
Of foundation or roots,

Is just a movable panorama, from one
Place to another, one hour to the next,

Hunting bare-knuckled, rubber-soled,
Chasing kinder horizons.

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