Leaving behind thy dreams and home,
And walking to the Western shores;
With cracked lips so full of thirst,
For life, for gold, for home, for trust.
Thou leaveth that which gives thee dreams,
For tilted figures and wilted gleam.
Thou art but like a piece of straw,
Lifted by the wind, lifted by the draw;
But home is home, O Wandering Leaf!
Look not for hearth on another tree;
Become the kindling, become the ash,
And never die ’til Winter’s pass.
Look Homeward! look, thine eyes might see,
The flames in hearths of distant dreams,
Burning, churning, waiting for thee.
The Poet: Arkane/thecodrr
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