Where Is My Home

Where is my home? Is it in the cottage leaning by the meadow,
Where mint whispers outrage to the night wind?
Or in a word, forgotten since a childhood song,
That comes to me in the late evening moon?

Perhaps it is in hands that touched, knowing no pain?
In a tale, told in a whisper, without haste or will?
Or is home not a place, but a moment that refuses to vanish,
Which the heart, like an ember under ash, guards?

I searched in cities and in footprints on the sand,
In foreign voices, in the winds, in the dew…
But home did not call out, did not shout, did not appear –
It only touched me like mist, like a quiet octave.

But one day I stopped – and walked no more.
And the silence itself finally came to me.
It asked for no names, no roads, no regrets,
It simply stood silently within me…

And I became it. And in it, I now live.