I dream of hills where olive branches sway,
And scent of jasmine greets the break of day.
I see the courtyard where I used to run,
Beneath the ancient fig that kissed the sun.
The wind still whispers names I used to know,
Soft echoes from a stream’s eternal flow.
Yet here I wander, exiled and alone,
A stranger bound by dust and weary stone.
Each star recalls a lantern from our street,
Where laughter bloomed and neighbors used to meet.
The sky was once a dome of tender light,
Before the smoke erased the blue from sight.
I taste the bread my mother used to bake,
And hear her prayers at dawn before I wake.
Though oceans stretch between my heart and land,
I feel its pulse beneath the foreign sand.
The breeze that cools my brow is not the same;
It hums no tales and whispers not my name.
Yet in my soul, its rivers never dry,
Its valleys green beneath a brighter sky.
I’ll cross the storms, no matter how they roar,
To walk its fields and feel its earth once more.
No tyrant’s hand can sever root from tree;
My blood’s the proof that soil belongs to me.
Though walls divide and borders twist and bend,
This longing burns and will not find an end.
For home’s a hymn the exiled hearts recite,
A song of dawn against the endless night.
And one day soon, with lifted hands I’ll roam,
And kiss the soil of my eternal home.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
I dream of hills where olive branches sway,
And scent of jasmine greets the break of day.
I see the courtyard where I used to run,
Beneath the ancient fig that kissed the sun.
The wind still whispers names I used to know,
Soft echoes from a stream’s eternal flow.
Yet here I wander, exiled and alone,
A stranger bound by dust and weary stone.
Each star recalls a lantern from our street,
Where laughter bloomed and neighbors used to meet.
The sky was once a dome of tender light,
Before the smoke erased the blue from sight.
I taste the bread my mother used to bake,
And hear her prayers at dawn before I wake.
Though oceans stretch between my heart and land,
I feel its pulse beneath the foreign sand.
The breeze that cools my brow is not the same;
It hums no tales and whispers not my name.
Yet in my soul, its rivers never dry,
Its valleys green beneath a brighter sky.
I’ll cross the storms, no matter how they roar,
To walk its fields and feel its earth once more.
No tyrant’s hand can sever root from tree;
My blood’s the proof that soil belongs to me.
Though walls divide and borders twist and bend,
This longing burns and will not find an end.
For home’s a hymn the exiled hearts recite,
A song of dawn against the endless night.
And one day soon, with lifted hands I’ll roam,
And kiss the soil of my eternal home.
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