Velvet green fields. Cotton clouds. Light blue sky. Wind down car windows. Modest breeze dancing reluctantly with playful hair. Silence. Music from another time. Small hills spread over a flat landscape. Summer flee market. A taste of strawberries.  The old mill, antic shop, glassblower, dirty brown river, small waterfall. Coffee shops, libraries, places I have danced. Swing and jazz palace. Sweat. Smell of Lilac when biking home late evenings in May. The feeling of home. Where is home?

Foreign languages, mother tongues, not yours. Words tattooed inside you, hidden, in the heart. Not to be spoken. Past, present and now, visiting through the dreams.

The last coffee at the old mill, burning sun, a jacket, a tie. The cancer hidden inside your hazy eyes. Looking at me from the other side. Another me, another time. If only. Where is home? Is it next to your grave where wild animals graze? Home is here, there and in between. Home is not a place. It is time. Home is now or than. At the old mill. The burning sun. The silence.