A Refugee's Lament
A poem of longing in a foreign land
This land has been good to me but it is not my home.
The breeze carries no song of the dead.
No sighs of the past.
I hear no ghosts, no voices moan
In the windswept night.
Where are the spirits?
The wraiths with silvered arms
Who reach from ancient graves.
I yearn to stand beneath the moon
Bathed in the resonant chant
Of a thousand souls.
I will take their hands
Walk through fields of mist.
Gladly follow to
Worlds of legend and lore.
Their touch will heal me,
Soothe the cuts
That burn my aching soul.
I crave the soil of my birth.
Heavy loam, rich with tears and blood.
It bears the source,
The fount of my eternal life.
From it seeps a crystal spring
That slakes the thirst
My heart endures.
Drawn from centuries
Of Sleeping souls
It will comfort me,
Feed me, nurture me,
Until once more
My spirit roots
In its mother earth.
This land has been good to me but it is not my home.
Lovely poem, Graham. It marries earth, spirit and soul. It suggests your homeland is haunted by history and the energy of those who passed before you. Your belief that these players can reach from another world to heal what ails you is reassuring.
Tender, yet reverberating the ache of loss, that, sure as the rain is wet, is felt by all displaced life on earth.