I listen to the East and grow uneasy.
A bitter sadness overtakes me.

The wide dark eyes of Eastern women
become both home and exile.

I dig into the past, a time when we held
our struggles tightly and rose to them.

Then shepherds carried bread and flutes,
literature exposed empty promises,

and idealists were the only warriors.
For migrating birds, nostalgia is a refuge.

I choose hope and listen to music
along forgotten roads.

I dream of reinventing myself, befriending
lovers, and sunbathing in secluded backyards.