here along the moor’s wake

a naive pilgrim

I am new to this place.

 

here, set in an age, not of my time

a world foreign to me

and I to it.

 

out of place to wander

among the ashes beneath stone.

 

I, the wandering jew

with no place of home;

of mind, of heart.

he who identifies more with his enemies than with his gods,

to smother whispers of truth;

along the crest of enchantment.

to dwell or not

in this place.

 

sorrow inflicts the wounded, to suffer all humanity;

here, along the moor’s wake.

in hopes of one day to feel again

and one day, live again

 

these customs, these faces,

with darkness traveled

 

a treacherous wretch

but far better above the minds of men,

alien to my understanding.

feeding knowledge of your world.

without knowledge of mine,

no wonder left in my circle.

to all abandoned ruin,

leaving to the beasts,

to be torn and gobbled up.

 

William Edward Teague, 2012