Skinned

I walk in more lands
than I have feet;
spiritual wanderer,
indigenous foreigner.

Do I cling to the land of my father
or submit to the land of my birth?
Do I belong to either?

Do I belong to this land or that?
Where is my heart?

Am I of this skin?
This soul?
What is my nature?

I see I am all,
both dark and light,
new and old.

None and all.

I am of this skin,
this nature, this soul,
this heart.

I am fluttering like a bird's wings.
I am beating like a drum.
I am cool and dark like the old forest.
I am hot and harsh like the perilous swamp.

What am I not?
What does not belong to me?

Only that which does not flow in my blood.

I sit in Cypress roots and Oak branches.

There is no thing forbidden to my flesh.

I am of many people,
a melting together of lands.

What am I not?

Here there is a feather in the mud
and I cannot tell which bird it belongs to.

It is me.

I am beating like a drum.