I remember I was 14 when I first went to Assisi.
Little boy from BYO, I tell you the process was kinda freaky.
Tears to my eyes; the fear of being ostracized.
Never realized that it was all self-climatized.
The culture shock truly put me to bed.
Not for long though, I was grappling with hate.
Bordza came through daily; sunga was a debate!
I was whiplashed.
That ain’t even the hard part,
cause making friends was the real tough part.
I spent four years dreaming,
thinking of better times; I was in the deep scheming.
The pit of doom and gloom.
Lush gumtrees in the paddocks every noon;
nothing like playing in the dirt with the livestock.
Not sure if I despised taking stock.
Not sure if I despised me.
Nothing spells terror more than sleeping on half-empty.
Nonetheless, I had plenty.
Even though the thing inside felt empty.
My true beginnings are here and there.
I shall never dare the endings of despair.
Never thought that 14 years later I’d be here,
writing about those feelings.
St. Francis; the most appealing.
Photo Credit: Denisse Leon