exile

you think that what we miss is sight of home

but you are wrong not sight nor sound but taste

of fruit and water among us misplaced

 

in foreign parts who having crossed the foam

weep in regret of all that we embraced

you think that what we miss is sight of home

 

and all the years we were condemned to roam

the painful earth in sorrow at our haste

to give up youth believing it a waste

you think that what we miss is sight of home

a lesson learned

no mysteries are hidden on the slope

for us to find we have the truth outright

together with cold rain in the long night

and messages that indicate the scope

of all our troubles is within the grope

of each small hand although the chance is slight

that we will make the climb yet to requite

anger for wrong would be to deny hope

what we are given may not seem like much

but what we had before was set to fail

to make a mob out of a human crowd

destroy each thing that came under its touch

now we have ended that unhappy tale

and a fresh breeze is clearing the last cloud