What words fall sweetest to my ears
Are sung in tongues I do not speak,
From voices fed with foreign spice
And sun and stars not known to me.
What words fall sweetest to my pen,
And pattern from my fingertips,
Those words I learned from my first breath
They flowed, with milk, soft past my lips
What time, what place, I should call home
I do not know, at least not yet.
My feet have yet to lead me there
And never will, I now suspect.
So words I hear, and songs that call
Will lure me on past life or breath.
I haven’t heard the call of home,
But will not give up, not just yet.