Stationary Traveler

Dust motes dancing in a shaft of gold On pages of stories that remain untold The window is a frame, the street a ghost I am the guest, and I am the host Alfama’s breathing through the wooden blinds The geography of a restless mind I haven’t moved, but I’ve sailed the seas In the silence of these miseries A thousand sunsets in a single inkwell The ringing of a silent bell I’m losing ground, I’m finding space Inside the lines of an absent face I am a stationary traveler, drifting away In the white light of a dying day No maps to follow, no stars to see Just the vastness of the soul inside of me The abyss is warm, the abyss is deep A suitcase filled with unrecorded hours The scent of rain on artificial flowers Why seek the world when the world is here In the crystalline drop of a lonely tear The fado sings in the trip-hop beat Of phantom footsteps on a cobbled street I’m a stranger to the man I used to be Content in my internal anarchy I occupy the intervals The space between the shadows on the walls Between the dream and the waking breath A beautiful life, a gentle death I am a stationary traveler, drifting away In the white light of a dying day No maps to follow, no stars to see Just the vastness of the soul inside of me