See him wandering alone,
The crowdless man,
He has no group,
He has no tribe,
He carries his identity in his pocket.
His pocket has a hole in it,
His story has a hole in it,
His tragedy is not a tune you can hum.
His suffering and sacrifice,
They have no handles;
His persecution has no logo,
No shrine, no yardstick.
His joy has no credentials,
His observations have no fixed address;
There are no awards whatsoever.
His gaze and yearning are way
outside the loop,
His pilgrimage has lots of holes in it.
See him wandering alone
Beaming to himself.
by Michael Leunig
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| Pitted rock at Mimosa Rocks © Jennifer Phillips |
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