The man with no homeland walks,
Sometimes I call it traveling.
Trying to be part of something,
Each town - I want to make it mine,
A place where I have memory or family, Or a lover.
Each country, I beg it to be mine, to claim me,
To wrap me tight in its flags,
So I can cheer and sing its songs.
But there is always some difference,
And I can't feel part of anything,
Sometimes it's the way the light shines on my shell,
That makes me separate,
Or that I have no history there,
Or no person.
But I share its peoples' life, this same air, and dirt,
It drapes over my shoes.
Something keeps me apart,
So I keep walking, looking.