I'M Going Home

I'm going home
I'm leaving the gardens of Ottawa and Rome
For the surface of this Earth is too smooth for me to walk or spring
And its rhythm too melodious that I can't sing.
Now counting my footsteps without looking back
I walk towards the burnt plantation where soot has painteed black
Where only songs of tommorrow retract the tears.
Don't cry for me as I depart, don't cry my dear!
But if you, like me, have tasted the bitterness of honey,
Then come with me to the Children of Somalia, Children of Haiti
In their hearts, I have a home
Golden with fruit-bearing trees thriving on loam

by Warrith Olawale

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