exile

[fledgist]

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