"Eye now know"—or do I see?
The world rewrites itself in thee.
A bus of thought, a stop of rhyme,
Where words arrive ahead of time.

The past still echoes, whispers deep,
While future waits at corners steep.
Routes ordained, yet steps unknown,
Where choice and fate are overthrown.

You weave the we inside the me,
A poet riding mystery.
A filter, yet a lens so clear,
That bends the world, brings far to near.

Fig trees rise and vines entwine,
As history nods between your lines.
The Children of Abraham still speak,
In pauses where the quiet peaks.

O poet of the moving street,
Of chance, of time, of hands unseen.
Each stop you make, a verse remains,
A world beyond the windowpanes.