The market square, bustling in joyous glow
Contains the sentiments of both the peddler and the browser.
Atop a box in the cobbled corner of an ancient shop\'s edge,
You sit, as if a ghost - and you ponder.
Unseen by the people that walk along
Streets of old and weathered stone -
Natives and travelers alike, smiling, glistening,
And there you\'re planted; The wanderer, lone.
The world feeling little different from the crate on which you\'re perched,
A defeated gaze corrupts your porcelain mask.
So powerful within your freedom have you become -
And that is why you must always ask.
How they all could be so strange before you;
To possess their own fate, yet squander it.
\"What a person\'s mind seeks is unique\", you repeat,
While the corner\'s shadow gives you comfort -
From the sun, overbearing; and its slightly parching heat.
Little ghost, I see you there -
Troubled and lost, desperate for direction.
You see, the matter of where you belong is important -
But it isn\'t precisely the right question.
The world indeed is a thin strand of fabric
Woven from a piece of glass;
Used to make up the surrounding walls -
Painted with clouds, and the morning\'s ash.
It may scare you now, though there\'s no wrong in that.
Assurance and resolution are not items to be claimed -
It is frightening to attempt, indeed. But do not fret,
For in that regard, we are the same.
People go where they wish to be,
And they do simply what they please.
Though you\'ll never hear these words, as I pass you by;
I think to myself that eventually, you\'ll be fine.