Mellow season rain slipping by the thunderstorm oh you have come, unknown visitor, unrecognized. Lone rose that bloomed in rain, drenched always in tears, this morning shaded beams of light and the song of birds welcoming the respite bend past you. This is the sea leading to Ithaca. Here I stand on the shores of the land that was my home. Who left with hundreds, alone I return like a thief. The gentle hand that passed last from my sight out of the multitudes that waved us bye, A hundred whispers of chants and hymns from shadows that rise from the corners where I found refuge from pain in these years: Whom do those fingers choose, honour-bound whom I left alone those twenty years ago? Years that rush like a river streaming past gorges.
What would your thoughts be if you were to return home twenty years late?