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