There is a place called home
In a country marooned by still backwaters
And a gentle wind waltzing with trees
Under the eyes of burning sunsets.
The flavours of this land strike you
With its colour and music,
Wherever you look, the bustle is endless.
Move with the crowd, and turn right
To reach home in a country which rose out of water.
In this grey and smoky world
I sometimes forget the way home.
The colours and music seem lost
As I drown in rivers, failing
To find my way back.
I do not know when I will find my way again
To the place called home
In a country half drowned in lakes –
Only the dream of what awaits me there
Reminds me to turn right, always.