Ithaca
The constant sound of the creeks
And the silence otherwise
The stories of the old walls
The murmurs from their speak
The smell of wet soil
As on the grass we laid
The comfort of not having
The promise of one day...
Your place, my place, our home
And all the places where we spent the nights
All imperfect and precious
Made of rummage sale finds
The walks on the library slope
As the tower bells tolled
The first kiss by the lake
And the sunsets beyond
The stumbling steps in a foreign land
All the faults that we could find
The memories of motherland
All the pleasures left behind
The simple caress of summer breeze
On the long tenuous hikes
The winding paths down the gorges
The hands to hold as I tripped
The firsts of all kinds from cooking to a car
The inconveniences and the strides
The courage I never knew I had
Skiing the slopes and rafting the tides
The pride of intellect
And the promises we will never be 'them'
Blissful ignorance of the inevitable
That some day we will all be the same
The wine on the hill top
As the fall colors arrived
The cold cold winters
And then the spring of all times
The loves that remained incomplete
And the ones that materialized
The salsa and the DJ nights
The darkness that let me hide
How do I write years in verses
Describe smells in lines
How do I name the numerous
And trace the steps back in time
The companions from every continent
The lessons of borders beyond
Love found, Love lost, and love found again
In a way it is here where I was born
