I dream of hills where olive branches sway,
And scent of jasmine greets the break of day.

I see the courtyard where I used to run,
Beneath the ancient fig that kissed the sun.

The wind still whispers names I used to know,
Soft echoes from a stream’s eternal flow.

Yet here I wander, exiled and alone,
A stranger bound by dust and weary stone.

Each star recalls a lantern from our street,
Where laughter bloomed and neighbors used to meet.

The sky was once a dome of tender light,
Before the smoke erased the blue from sight.

I taste the bread my mother used to bake,
And hear her prayers at dawn before I wake.

Though oceans stretch between my heart and land,
I feel its pulse beneath the foreign sand.

The breeze that cools my brow is not the same;
It hums no tales and whispers not my name.

Yet in my soul, its rivers never dry,
Its valleys green beneath a brighter sky.

I’ll cross the storms, no matter how they roar,
To walk its fields and feel its earth once more.

No tyrant’s hand can sever root from tree;
My blood’s the proof that soil belongs to me.

Though walls divide and borders twist and bend,
This longing burns and will not find an end.

For home’s a hymn the exiled hearts recite,
A song of dawn against the endless night.

And one day soon, with lifted hands I’ll roam,
And kiss the soil of my eternal home.