I walk along the shoreline,
wind blowing through the south-side trees,
around my face streams a familiar scent,
the smell of fresh pine.

This lake is one of many,
the North is a wonderful time,
crime is negligible,
the people are not many.

Whispers come rustling through the leaves,
they tell me stories,
of love and of glory,
they tell of a long lost people.

They are my people is some ways,
we are interconnected,
strung together on the strings,
the same dichotomy.

I wonder if they're watching me now,
are they weeping for their loss,
or are they rejoicing in my freedom,
yes,
this is our kingdom.