I think you say, in English, ‘I will be coming home’,
When you write a letter, or use the telephone,
But surely that must also mean, that you were there before,
With possessions and your Family, and a key for your front door.
So, I cannot use these words; I am a Refugee.
For complicated reasons, my home I had to flee,
So now, no thought of ‘coming home’ applies; I turned my back,
On all that was familiar. A home is what I lack.
In your hearts, unknown to me, I seek your intercession,
I travel forward hopefully, I need no more repression,
Perhaps, when I’m accepted, I’ll recall days when forced to roam,
And know then, safe and happy, I was really ‘coming home’.