My home is a place deep inside me;
It is a memory of the fields beyond my yard
It the memory of a sky bigger than anything I have known
It is the memory of a safety stronger than stone.
My home is a place that is no more;
It is fields where houses now grow
It is a sky now speckled with planes
A safety now threatened by bombs.
My home is a place far from here;
It is across and ocean and one sea
It is across twelve hours in a plane, and at the airport
three
It is across seven hours according to the sun
It is in every place that I am, and it is in none.
My home is a house that my father designed;
It is a place where he and my mother lied
It is a place in which I slept in the bombshelter room
It is a place time cannot touch, even if the village is
doomed.
My home is a feeling in which I can be safe;
It is a point in time, it is a speck in space
It is the place where I lived, and ate, and lied
It is a memory in which I sometimes hide.
My home can be no more, it was torn apart by divorce;
It was never really love that they shared, it always seemed
forced
It was a ticking bomb, it is a living scar
It is all the things I want, and it is very far.
My home is a place by the fields, where there are no souls
that scream in the night;
It is a place where I once cried, and tried to bury my
light
It is a flittering thing, a fleeting lullaby
It is the most dearest of things to me, and will be, until I
die.