On the way home

His heart he offers them
...and they spurn.
Then in silence and seclusion
...silently he weeps.
However there is no one coming all along
who would wipe the tears from
his careworn face away.
And so with each birth of a day he gets up
and sets forth the new pilgrimage.

His endless heart stays opened still,
so that everyone could enter...
...only visitors sometimes come...

He is not clad like a king,
his garments bear the sign of distant lands,
though he is the embodiment of thee Lord.

So night after night as wave after wave
lonely yearning and silent weep dissembles
and they are smiting upon the merciless shore of body...

I wish my pilgrimage to reach home already.