Where's the home of the stranger if not in a nameless grave,
Providing him with peace and silence;
His gravestone seems blank, but it tells thousands of untold stories
About his damnation and condemnation;
Living among people without feeling anything what runs that nation
Is painful in life, and even afterlife
When he knows it right that that name on the grave is quite unwanted,
And won't be visited, only haunted;
Haunted by thoughts and doubts of the self's unsaid words,
And the surrounding world's empty words
That had been waited by the stranger so eagerly to utter something;
The empty words should have uttered something,
Something that a stranger never could utter correctly:
Home.