This Land
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There is a land I love beyond explaining—
not because it is perfect or without the stain
of all that history puts on every nation,
but because it is mine, and in my vein.
I have walked its particular earth and known
the specific quality of its particular sky,
I have heard its rivers and its mountain silence,
I have breathed its air and not asked why
it calls me back across all the distance—
it calls the way that origins always call,
the way the first home always holds the deepest,
the way the motherland outlasts the sprawl.
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There is a land I love beyond explaining—
not because it is perfect or without the stain
of all that history puts on every nation,
but because it is mine, and in my vein.
I have walked its particular earth and known
the specific quality of its particular sky,
I have heard its rivers and its mountain silence,
I have breathed its air and not asked why
it calls me back across all the distance—
it calls the way that origins always call,
the way the first home always holds the deepest,
the way the motherland outlasts the sprawl.
