My hands touch the
crevices of the bark,
It has its own hue.
Time is spent sitting
on the metal bench,
There is an engraving
of a distant love
'Always in our hearts'
The markings on the
tree are unclear,
I wonder.
There are too many of them,
I am not sure which mark
the tree was born with,
And which was carved on to its body.
Then I wrote a poem about home.
This what I give to you.
"Oh runner, how far will you travel?
Don't you know your legs are tired
And your mind grows in the same old search.
You will never find home in bricks
Or money or people
If you continue to ignore the home in you."