Exiled

I am living in a country that is not my native land

On an altogether different piece of earth

But perhaps the only place I’ll ever really understand

Is my well-beloved island home,

The land which gave me birth.

For I belong by birth-right to a folk who are apart

And their special zest for living is always in my heart.

Their heritage is beauty in the hills and lakes and trees

And every exile heart is stirred by memories of these.

But there’s sadness in the beauty of my lovely island home.

Some people there are prisoners whose thoughts may never roam

Outside the rigid system which

They’ve learned to need too much

And although I understand them,

I can no longer talk to such.

Christmas 1964

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