I am not homesick.
I am already home.
This place is my home.
These trenches filled with corpses,
Corpses of emotions,
Piled one on top another,
This is my home.
I remember places
Places I used to call home
A cold, cold day of December
A June that shone light upon me
A red-rimmed November
An April of hope and fear
I remember these places,
But I know them not.
I only know my home.
A home so desolate,
A home so isolated,
A home full of craters,
Of thoughts without and within.
A thousand graves,
A thousand dreams,
A thousand fiery suns that light up the sky with their dying light,
They shine upon this home of mine.
This home of mine, and mine alone.
Visitors sometimes stumble upon it,
But they leave so hastily.
I cry out:
“Little butterfly, where do you fly?
Can I not follow those wings of yours?
Those red masses of shifting fire?
Those maelstroms of brilliant azure?
Those kaleidoscopes of violent emerald?
Will you not take me away,
Far, far away,
From this place?
From this home of mine?”