For those of you who are nomads at heart, this poem by Romanian writer Emilia Ivancu may speak to you.
The Air Is All I Have
I have nothing –
No place to weep,
No place to die.
Times are I fiind a corner of this world in which to sleep
But it’s never more than somewhere rented.
I can look into the hearts and homes of others
But always only through the window;
All doors are meant for those who live within.
After a time
Even when drinking tea with friends
There comes a moment when I must leave —
I don’t even trouble to say that I would like to stay
And once again I peer through the window
Smiling, though in no way embittered,
At the thought that I too could have people come to tea or
I have nothing —
This is why I do not wish to give myself up to the earth.
Being rootless, I have reasons not to.
So you may let the wind carry me away
The air is all I have
I feel it, breathe it, but never can I touch it.
–Emila Ivancu, from Washing My Hair With Nettles, trans. by Diarmuid Johnson