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.