Drifting without a purpose,
roaming in and around the avenues,
feeling the joy of nature,
and singing the song of life,
as mother earth is my home,
and the bluish sky is the limit,
my nights are singular
with charismatic dreams,
under the billions stars and a placid moon,
my days are shining,
under the flashing sun and sometimes white foamy clouds,
rains are the showers of my happiness,
lightening is of pains,
natives say my life is useless,
without any gains.
I am an itinerant,
filling the color in my canvas,
made up of gravel or paper,
struggling to find a concrete existence.
I am itinerant,
I have nothing except some benediction.
My life is a desultory journey,
without a defined destination.