The Travelling Feet

If feet were the voice the soul,

They’d sing of faraway places; places without rules,

Without the invisible walls that keep us indoors,

Wherever the feet would fall, the grass be green and soft and supple,

Like an adamant rivulet moving ever so quietly,

They’d hurtle down the slope,

Between the morning sun and the evening light,

Tirelessly they’d roam about,

Kissing every inch of the ground beneath,

Knowing without being told that their journey held great meaning,

For every step forward was a tiny death of the old shoe skin they had donned,

Bare feet, they were free; free of inhibitions,

Of colourful labels and of fear that comes from travelling alone.

What beauty lies in flying skyward, only a bird with wings can know,

Dare I travel so far that the world with its walls can hold me no more?

The Song of the Sufi Masroof