Wanderlust for home

Inspired by Kieran Halpin „Foreigners“

From afar the call penetrates to me. It is the wind that carries him to me. And the clouds. And the water. The wind tells me that it saw it, the land where my soul found my home. It blew over gentle green hills, over sharp, steep cliffs. He lay down on the smooth mirror of the ocean, swung with the excited waves.

 

Come, whisper to me, come home.

I want to, but I am still bound here, but my soul is pushing home.

The clouds bring the message to me. Between the stone walls, built over the centuries, the sheep graze. They carry peace and serenity with them, between them, to the people. In between, dilapidated buildings. Made of stone, covered, inhabited and abandoned. People move on and the buildings remain. Slowly they fall, but still as they fall, life blooms around them, rises up on them and brings the dilapidated to flower. Nature brings everything to blossoming, integrates the dead into the living and makes it once more residential.

 

Come, whisper to me, come home

I want to, but I am still bound here, but my soul is pushing home.

 

The waves tell me of the beach they are rolling along, letting themselves be carried into the land by the flood and let themselves be carried back from the ebb. An everlasting coming and going. And the water feeds the waves, but it also spills over the land, penetrates the earth and makes it fruitful. Everywhere it is green. It is the water that makes the island flower and elicits the most beautiful colors from the earth. It is the water that collects in streams and rivers and cuts through the country to travel, to bring life to life, or death.

 

Come, whisper to me, come home.

I want to, but I am still bound here, but my soul is pushing home.

 

The sunbeams carry the fragrance and breath of the land to me. Nobody sees as much as they do, for they pour out their golden light, over all that lives, without regard. Just because. They have a smile for everything that lives there. Sometimes they hide behind the clouds. And nature is revived, again, when they pass behind the clouds. They tell me of the evening, of noon and of the morning. Of the game and the laughter, if they succeed in chasing the rain and painting a rainbow to the sky.

 

Come, whisper to me, come home.

I want to, but I am still bound here, but my soul is pushing home.

 

But one day, I will be driven by the wind, carried by the clouds, rocked by the waves, and guided by the sun’s rays, to reach the land my soul knew from its very beginning. So much will be explained. So much of an interpretation is accessible when one has finally found the place where the soul can find rest and the mind dwells, a place that exhales the unrest and takes one in its own accord as if one had never been anywhere else, At the place where my soul finds home.

Kommentar verfassen

Powered by WordPress.com. von Anders Noren.

Nach oben ↑

%d Bloggern gefällt das: