Where is home
Take me to where the grass meets the sky
where a defiant voice rises above the clouds and erupts clear
with tongues that taste freshly killed mutton
and milk, curdled and free flowing.
There, I will lay in the fields
looking up to the sky that never ends
where the songs of my heroes
that almost conquered the world
on the backs of horses and furs heavy across shoulders
they never die;
they just ring on and on and on
with throaty double voices
where they ride to the brink of the world
where grass continues downward
as far as the eye can see.
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