As I travel across this country <br />the land that I love best <br />with its snowy peaked mountains <br />that lay out of reach in the west. <br />The rivers and the lakes <br />where nature grows at its best. <br />The forests and the plains <br />that each has their part <br />in the land I love the best. <br />I write from a distant shore <br />with dreams of coming home again <br />ever always on my mind. <br />Seeing once again friends <br />from a long, long time ago. <br />The land that I live in is not to my desire. <br />My home is ten thousand miles away, <br />and each time I see it, <br />it’s like the birth of a new day. <br />The cities are filled with people <br />and in the countryside; you can breathe in the fresh air. <br />The more I dream about it, <br />the more I wish to be there. <br />It is not the land of my birth, <br />but the place that I call home. <br />That distant country keeps calling to me <br />come home my son, come home. <br /> <br />31 January 2009<br /><br />David Harris<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/come-home-my-son-come-home/
