Passport stamps like chapters in a book,
Every city’s a verse, every girl’s a hook.
From Tokyo’s neon to Rio’s sun,
Met a queen in Lagos—her tongue? Yoruba fun.
*She said, “Ọmọ mi, life’s a mosaic,”*
Pieces of the world in her gele tied poetic.
I’m not a tourist—I’m a student of the soul,
Collecting truths where the oceans roll.
Around the world, I’m chasing horizons,
Not just faces—legends in their eyes.
Each kiss a border crossed, no disguise,
*The globe’s a stage, and we’re all alive…*
Traveling man, but I’m learning the script,
Every woman’s a map I ain’t tryna skip.
Met a Parisian painter in a Montmartre loft,
*Her brushstrokes whispered, “Freedom’s not soft.”*
We talked Debussy, drank wine from the vine,
She said, “Mon amour, borders are just lines.”
Then a Māori dancer in Auckland’s rain,
*Her haka shook the earth—ancestors* in her veins.
*I asked, “What’s the secret to your fire?”*
*She smiled, “We don’t own land… we are the land.”*
They say I’m a rover, no roots in the dirt,
But every soul I meet? Rewrites my worth.
Ain’t about the bodies—it’s the stories they carry,
*Like a library of lives… and I’m just the librarian.
In Marrakech, a Berber queen sold spices and dreams,
Her hands dyed henna, history in the seams.
*“You think you’re traveling?” She laughed, “No, you’re found—*
*The world’s not out there… it’s within the ground.”
Now I’m in Havana, salsa with a curandera,
*She heals with herbs and sings like a sirena.
*“Mijo, the globe’s a mirror—look deeper,” she said,*
*“You’ll see your own face in every bed.”*
Around the world, I’m chasing horizons,
Not just faces—legends in their eyes.
Each kiss a border crossed, no disguise,
*The globe’s a stage, and we’re all alive…*
Traveling man, but I’m learning the script,
Every woman’s a map I ain’t tryna skip.
*So here’s to the pilgrimage—no trophy, no prize,*
Just souls in the passport, and truth in their eyes.
The world’s not a trophy—it’s a teacher,
*And every woman I meet? A chapter… I’m the reader.*
