Homecoming

 I wish I could talk

with way more pride

of the language, name and land

I was given.

With the same one with which I write

these lines

under this taken pen

that reaches far and wide

so that even my folk

who dream that I would walk

do not understand.

I wish I didn't let down

my own past,

this wretched, forgotten town,

on its, like mine, old, disjointed bones

that insist to last

at the corner

of the border

only to watch its own doom.

I wish I knew it as well

as the worst parts of myself -

to hear its voice like the bell

at five o'clock.

I guess I can still wish

for high river with fish

and good enough health

from the boon

of a late, yet welcomed bloom

to our stock.

Or do I really?

18/03/2021