Sitting still, I feel my spirit grow weak.
Broken hearted, I live amongst the meek.
But I shall not inherit the Earth.
I’ve taken it already, as if mine, from birth.
I’ve traveled near, far, and in-between,
Not for money, duty, man, or queen.
I have lived to love and loved to live,
With a childish heart I too freely give.
But a heart that gives too often takes.
It becomes a thief of the love it makes.
I’m haunted by the faces of those I’ve left.
To those who gave all, I’m forever in debt.
Saint Christopher, still this traveler’s heart!
Give me silence and a steady beat!
Will there ever be rest in me
Or must this restlessness be my destiny?
Do hearts such as mine deserve peace
Or will happiness always be a distant reach?
We travelers, we wanderers,
We hopeless love squanderers,
We vagabonds, we vagrants,
We lonesome, nomadic pagans.
We who fly in the wind like dust,
We who for adventure lust,
We restless hearts with no end in sight,
We of endless starts, forever in strife.
We who drown with the masses in an unmoving pond,
And thrive only in lonely rivers moving far beyond.
The muscle in my chest dies if untested.
Damn my restless heart — and bless it.