Never again will I speak to these people
Never my foot could stand true to this shore
For when I return clothed, and shaped as a stranger
I'll look on this dust as I haven't before
Never the walls of that tall weight washed dwelling
could call on my spirit ascending the hill
children I played with have grown into fellows
still whispers will ring in my ear loud and shrill:
This is the place that was here time ago
the mountains my memory muffled with snow
sparse, puzzled locals with gaped eyes that say
"I remember the sight of your back turn away"
In our small house lives a bundle of strangers,
Under this concrete once pines planted seed
progress exceeds on esthetics - how mellow
to name this "development" rather than "greed"
Where is the olive we all used to climb on?
Where did the muddy curds make the best pies?
All has been stolen and crushed into rubble
a dream soaked in rubbish, the smell of it lies
this is the place where nostalgia can breath
a fact plastic framework could never deceive
It's too late to morn it, and I can not greave
for the land that one day I decided to leave

In a clear moon light patch, sits one tender in years
now veins tingeing with violet his young, gentle hand
that silently dances for no one to see
and leaves budding feelings engraved in the sand