I am here to see the village,
Which I have never fully seen,
And most likely,
I have never walked its paths just for the sake of walking,
Past the small stone paved roads for the main ones,
Never walked the path that smells like ash, mildew and fertile earth,
Never seen the field with the baby trees,
That at sunset cast grown shadows,
The crows like to perch there.
I've never passed the corn fields,
That whisper and sway their brief greetings.
Never passed the little grove,
With stumps and logs,
Like the remains of a long and bloody war.
I have never seen my village,
Yet it has housed me for so long,
I have walked it blindly.
But I see it now,
And as I sit on a dead tree,
And write on dead pages,
Made from deader trees,
The crickets are singing,
My feet turn home,
The fields wave a mournful goodbye,
The crows caw at my passing,
And the ash smells ever sweeter.
I never saw my village,
But wish I had.