Oh, how long; how long must I belong?
The day the bird shall speak no more.
For I, for I, must travel long.
The sweet amber color of the tree,
and the temper blue of the sky,
they say, speak.
Speak, for I await for thee.
Must I travel long?
For I have labored here,
and shall await till dusk
and be no more.
Moon and Sun, they do await,
though fools and kings stay below,
and thus the sky will open up its doors
to the majestic unknown world.
Below and low,
thieves and trickers and merchants go,
though they rise above the sky
with purple robes.
They tremble and think and go,
today in sorrow,
tomorrow in love.
He shall whistle the song above,
for the king awaits,
high and low.
A traveler, a traveler,
for he must always go.
A poem by,
— S. I. Guzman
