for my memory and birth i have poland -
what, with this 8 year old brat -
for my conscious hours,
and for my to-do lists of
hardly fathomable pretenses -
well: that's just about england...
but of the question regarding
a heart?
       certainly not wales,
and certainly not ireland -
what other place if not scotland?
these outer-removed celts
known as picts, what of them?
3 years, and a fired-up imagination...
a romance that isn't romance
in the classical terminological
definition...
what do i have in the reign
of body toward a land,
  to be a pseudo-abortion in
existential terms?
    i do remember being born
in an area of low-lands and minor
hills...
          toward the barren quest
for flat-land and the sea -
imagine seeing the gracious peaks,
as if falling in love with
travelling by rail -
            rather than aeroplane...
where does my heart reside,
if not in scotland,
and the typography of edinburgh
with its arthur's sea lodged
right in the "middle" of it...
   i sow no allegiance to either poland
or to england...
    so where do i take my pledge?
soctland!
             if ever the 3 years
in edinburgh taught me to remember
the child, and become its father,
it is there...
               zu norden, zu norden, ja....
where else?
                   that thistle in
the moonlit grove -
   a thistle in moonlit tantrum of bloom...
if ever a colour:
i'd like to see,
        before i die, the spectrum
of colour in moonlight written
into textbooks...
        but not by colour per se defined,
but by flower:
  thistle for purple...
                  of the eye that can see,
brightest in the zenith of sun,
and actor-prone in the nadir of moon:
thistle for purple...
                 a yellow, orange & red
in the moon itself, alongside
                    cranium white...
           blue in stealth of silver waters,
green & indigo in the northern lights...
indigo: that twin of pink & purple...
    i have no nation to concern myself
with...
     no land of birth, no land of maturing,
but a land not my own,
that i am the most exiled from,
  for which the heart asks questions
       about, prior to every night falling
toward its rest...
         entombed in the rocks
             of the valley of glencoe...
and to think,
in ratio dividing 30...
9/30 in the land of birth
     3/30 in the land of tutoring -
with only 18/30 in the land of current
abode...
                   with the last:
the least fashioning custom, patriotism
and desire to be part of...
                  other than a respect
for a spoken tongue...
this can't be a romanticism...
  for it involves a foreign land,
and a foreigner shedding sentiment
onto it...
               yet scotland remains,
like the lore of the foroe isles...
           something beyond the remains
of a collective effort currently prescribed
for man to "indulge" himself in.
of a heart, only one land remains
pivotal to my eerie feel of
                   the nomad -
                             and that place
is a required reading,
   of a minimum of 3 years...
to later be seen as somewhere where
a peace & comfort reside for the soul
akin to my own.