I would like to have a place to call my village, but my roots are very far away. I’m a child of exile, and for many years those places were forbidden for me. Now that things had changed, and I don’t have any political problems to return to my country and visit my parent’s towns, where I feel really at home, and I can meet my relatives, I don’t have the money to travel or the means to think about moving there.
When I was young, I wrote a poem, and I explained that for me, my homeland was my parent’s house, where the memories of my forbidden land were kept with so much care. Now they both had passed away, and I suddenly found myself without roots.
It would be easier if I could have the freedom then to fly to wherever I wanted. But chains of duty, lack of means stopped me.
I have no village. My village is the world. I’m feeling a stranger in both lands: the one I love and the other one who adopted me. But I fell trapped, And I can’t wait for the opportunity to get away.
The picture is form the bay of Kotor the where my father comes from
How sad. It’s said,” Home is where your heart is.” but roots run deeper than that.
That’s true. I have to fix my heart and find firm ground. Unless I’ll always feel something is missing. Thank you for your kind comment, Susan.