HOME

Home is not these lonely walls and rusty roofs,
Staring windows and forsaken doors.
Not these darkened stoves and broken pots.
Tired buildings and ancient rooms.

Home is the familiar sight
Of bent grasses and sturbon stones,
Of embracing smiles from loved faces.
Sounds of chirping birds, of barking dogs,
Of similar cries from lashed babies.
Home is old trees
Bowing at the command of the breeze
Home is children
Torn in the ecstasy of evening plays,
Families laughing at sincere jokes.
Home is these sad memories,
And the happy moments
Shared with those we grew alike.

If time would drive me forward on its wheels
Without memories being left behind.
Then home would always be with me
Even in the most foreign spaces.