Monuments beyond plenty,
Only complicated, particular architecture.
Unknown artists, now gods with golden fingers,
Van Gogh, or Da Vinci?
Rich, blaring, endless,
A place of colorful buildings:
They tell me you are like nicotine, and you have proven that true, for I lust after your buildings of color once more.
And they tell me you are devious and I agree, for I have seen you wish away the guilty with certainty.
They speak of your wealth while those with hungry eyes stare quietly among your golden roads.
And I who have seen, could not imagine a place so colorful. So show me more. Show me another city, another town hidden among your blossoming trees, and snarled sand dunes.
Another destination with roaring music, and foolish dancing.
Because here is a soul, complete with eagerness, but uncertainty:
Trapped inside one's devious self, there is one who sings of adventure and exposure.
Searching the evening horizon for the holes to heaven, ignoring even Antares.
Soon, discovering no such thing.
So I ask “Where is this all leading?”
And we all laugh a nervous laugh.
For we are the ones in search for an odyssey.
We are the ones to run after the unexplored.
And finally we realize that is all we have, and that is all there is.
And the place of colorful buildings sits quietly somewhere.