She hurls herself onto the highway—

trains, ships, the air itself become her allies.

No map can subdue her;

she chooses to be lost,

for there the world is more honest than home.

City after city,

she draws loneliness like a knife,

piercing through unfamiliar nights,

listening to her own blood

roar between horns and the whisper of wind.

She knows: her body is only a temporary vessel,

but her footsteps

are prayers louder than any church,

longer than ancient verses

that are never fully read.

She is a woman who refuses to be tamed.

For her, travel is not an escape,

but a silent battle—

every station a battlefield,

every empty road an altar

for the self she keeps burning,

until only ashes remain, glittering

like a star that refuses to fade.

And when people ask: “where is home for you?”

she only lets out a small laugh,

for home, to her,

is to keep on walking,

stitching wounds with distance,

discovering life

in every loss.