“No one realises how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.”
– Lin Yutang
How many Hours,
Do you have to spend in a new-found place,
to miss it when you leave?
How long do you have to stay,
to unashamedly tell natives,
Some piece of their land tugs softly at your
And somehow whispers your name?
How long before, to everyone else, you
claim it as your own?
Is it wanderlust if it’s just for one place?
Foreign longing lasts only until the return; I’m
back before the tan fades.
The Traveller plans another journey –
Somewhere Else this time,
designed to chase away
Memory’s ethereal ghosts.
But alas! Stubborn footprints!
Joined by new impressions in the sand.
Time’s gentle tide softly dulls,
but never quite makes disappear.
Is it wanderlust if it’s just for places you’ve seen?
They will see you again.
A meeting of Travellers: Stories
of steps journeyed,
And wonders, beheld,
In their splendour.
The coupling of strange and exciting, in
an amalgamation of experience,
Like adventures that belong
between the pages of a book.
Is it wanderlust if it’s for places unknown?
You are still a Traveller.
It is a luxury. And the longing
ache for foreign lands is your privilege.
– Matilda Dancing