Wild sheep chase

If you saw me with your eyes, you would not notice.
Where I come from, the shadows of loved ones are still tended
and we always sacrifice with smoke.

I feel my skin peels easier than yours,
as my face burns in the winds of South Africa and blisters in the sun of Chile,
my dimensions showing like onions, skin after skin, each one new and biting.

The world has shrunk in me and around.
Where I go, the search for you seems to have stopped,
my steps echo in the vast
and I use my Gulliver-eyes to question.

More and more I get used to the wild sheep chase.
Each morning lambs spring out of my head
somersaulting with tiny feet.
I never though tire to count their blessings, one by one.