I'm going home, or am I leaving home?
What a sweet burden home is.
I've gone as far away from it as I could,
and still I'm carrying it.
Or it's carrying me?
I'm so confused that I want to cry.
I don't know where I am,
and I don't know where I'm going.
But I'm about to move again.
I thought it would be clearer;
I thought I would know what I would miss,
and where I want to be.
In the morning the bells will ring,
to wake me for tea.
It's the last time I will hear them.
There are no bells where I'm going,
and the tea is different.
But I'm bringing some of this tea back with me.
Such a little piece of this place,
carried so far away.
They can drink it at my home,
but they can't hear the bells;
for them it will just be strange tea.
Just a taste on the tongue.
I think I remember who I was,
when I left home before.
But who am I now?
Such childish questions,
I feel childish.
It's years since the unanswerable questions
seemed important like this.
Years since I had so many things I wanted to remember,
because they're all going away.
Except, of course, that they're not going anywhere.
It's me who's supposed to be going home,
wherever that is..