As a citizen of the near-Earth worlds within reach

As a citizen of the near-Earth worlds within reach, Where you need no stamp and no visa Or any other papers, from top to bottom, I present to you my eternal home and shelter. I love everything in it, everything — from mountains to hollows, And I marvel at every drop in a waterfall. And at every cry of a newborn child, From curlicues of clouds to tongues from the bowels of hell. And I've been everywhere — the borders opened wide, I prayed sincerely under a chapel's vaults, in Orthodox churches, in Catholic ones, under the open sky. I lay beneath a slab with a shot glass and bread on top, to those many thousands of nice photographs, to the toast of sweeping, boilerplate epitaphs it was an eyesore from age to age… I've been where there's nothing but a fence and razor wire. They tried to protect the planet from rowdy me, I don't remember exactly: the red one, the ringed one, or this. But does it really matter? Well, yes, I was unpleasant, I was the author of seven spots on the Sun. Forgiven by the Luminary — the child was having fun, A parent in this house won't send down curses, that's for sure. I was a tree — I knocked on people's windows, Sheltered them from storms — soaked down to the roots. I saw thousands of funeral processions And schoolkids trudging through the hollow, sleepy. I threw acorns at them — when there was a slingshot in their hands, and ripe yellow pears — so it would hurt so sweet. I rustled, creaked, in every kind of weather, I aged, I rotted — but hey, I'm still young. Sometimes I'd appear like a mirage in the desert, like the sound of a guitar, the oil on a painting. Asphalt smeared me over wet tires. I was a sharp blade slipping under men's scalps. I was a toy of the great and of infants, A summons, an action, a killer of infidels, a wretched old man on someone's grandkids' shoulders, a letter where a hundred letters decide a life. I'd love to remember it all, and in detail: Summer in sandals. Discos at court in veils. The taste of a spoon of honey with milk, the way I steamed my feet, That Mom and Dad were not always strict. On the contrary, more often they were fair, But how come the neighbor's plums tasted better? And the pears, the apples, why, the whole yard. I remember doing time for being a thief. Centuries later, echoes surface: A tumor in the brain. A test stick — two bright lines. And there's no beginning, just as there's no end. We're children of one mother and one father. Thank you for this eternal abode, For letting me be its honorary peaceful resident.