When I finally go home,
If it is not in a coffin
I will never go into exile again.
If a foreign land will blot my pen
And darken my dreams
I will stay in my hometown.
We may not have a telephone
That works, but if I shout over
The fence, somebody will hear me.
We may not have a train that runs
On time, but if I walk long enough
I will get to my destination soon enough.
On the way, I would walk past people,
Real people who will acknowledge
My greeting. They might even ask
About my home and my people
I would say they were fine
When I left them. I might ask
About their homes and their people
They would say all were fine
When they left them.
We would wish us well, God-speed,
And pray that on our return, our homes
And our people would still be fine.