Rome

Somewhere in the eastern hills,
With changing leaves and ripened harvest fields,
A fading women lived alone.
She was skin and bones.
Before they dug her grave,
When her manuscripts had been bound and saved,
Her final words were spoken slow:
«I'll never leave my home.
This is my home because I call it home,
And it’ll burn like Rome before I go."
How to justify my eyes?
Cold and simple, drifting as the crow flies
«Let me go to where I will,
And let the earth stand still.»
But who am I to fly?
Have I no task to keep me by her side?
When all I see is all I know,
I want to know my own.
This is my home because I call it home,
And it’ll burn like Rome before I go.
Don’t act as if it’s all or none.
I won’t find my place just by crossing oceans
And I won’t be guiltless if I run,
'Cause this is my home.