There where my back faces
Is my home
And there is no place like it
Though I am backing home
My heart beat with its love
And my night reminiscent
Of its dreams.
That mortar and pestle
The sound that breaks the silence
Of the quiet evening
A thick paste of pounded yam
Waiting for the boiling melon
And sweet bitter leaf soup.
Home sweet home
Where palm wine froth with fragrant foams
Bottled in gourds and earthenwares
And men gather under the gold sheen
Of the moonscape
Telling the stories of men
Marksmen and the skulls of big games
Of tribal wars and conquest of land
Where the youth strut like
They conquered it themselves.
Home, sweet home
The warmth and cold
That comes without climate change
Where chicken and goats frolick
Waiting for a visitor to arrive
Home sweet home
Where we gathered under a tree
In the silent evening listening
To grandma doling out some Flores
Passed on to her
As she passed it to us.
Oh, sweet home.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh, yes! No place like home. But why is it that many go away from home. Quest for new things, I guess!