Exile

I remember my home -
old roads only roamed
in Spirit-whispered stories
of ages past and yet to come,
now borderless and barren,
skeletons lining the lands
that once flourished like flesh,
young and unspoiled, tender and toiled
as fallow soil, the earth
as it was and will be
in its ancient youth renewed.

Old roads overgrown
with time and longing
for time without longing,
without losing and bruising of hearts
and breaking of bones that ache
for home, can you feel it?

Can you see it? The light
that lessens the weight of waiting
for what is right and out of reach,
the pillared beacon that beckons
the passing brave to believe
that bones, even of those who die in exile,
can be carried along the old roads
to the farm-land of their Father
- and await the harvest