Turnaround
Chaos of tracks of life
constantly moving
apparently languishing,
actually awakening,
while filling up my new home.
Timely, following their destiny,
or following my thoughts,
or some kind of indescribable design,
rocks, paintings, pictures happen
into their right places in my new home.
To their own beat, sometimes fast,
sometimes awfully slow,
the chaos of the perpetual pilgrim
recovers near the mountains its essence,
the peace of a Carthusian in his cell.
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