Like to a leaf that is fallen and withered, Tossed by the tempest from pole unto pole; Thus roams the pilgrim abroad without purpose, Roams without love, without country or soul.
Recorded in a book we find Adventure of surprising kind: How that a villain basely born Died on a certain Friday morn, And by some chance it came to pass, Nor angel nigh nor devil was.
Madam, Lady Rose, lovely paradigm of all blossoms Sun and Moon gaze upon: why linger in your cradle, if you’re grown, why fear human ravage, if you’re divine?
At dead of night Sleep took her flight: I gazed abroad, no star of all the crowds That people heaven, was smiling through the clouds To cheer my sight That dreary night.
At the barber shop, the barber asks where I come from. I say “Kenya.” He nods politely and drapes a shawl around my shoulders. I want him to ask another question. Which part of Kenya? What was it like? Why did you leave?