I have walked through cities that speak in stone —
where cathedrals hum beneath the soles of your feet
and alleyways remember names you’ve never said aloud.
Each border I crossed dissolved like fog at sunrise,
and still the horizon whispered: not yet.
There were deserts where the wind carved stories in the sand,
and mountains that judged me with silence.
I’ve bowed to jungles, to temples veiled in incense and dust,
to oceans that sang lullabies in tongues older than breath.
I’ve drunk tea with strangers who knew my heart before my name,
and slept under stars that watched over every country like ancient gods.
The epic pathway is not paved in gold,
but in blistered heels and borrowed maps,
in languages mispronounced but sincerely offered,
in lost trains and found moments.
I am Odysseus in airports,
Gilgamesh on a motorcycle,
a cartographer of wonder, sketching myths on napkins.
The world does not end — it unfolds.
Every new step breaks the seal on another chapter:
a festival in Marrakech,
a monsoon in Bangkok,
a quiet prayer in Kyoto.
Epic pathways are not marked by distance,
but by transformation.
The journey is the altar.
The road, a holy script.
And I —
just another pilgrim
chasing the eternal sunrise
around the curve of the Earth.
