rolls over the flat land as
quick as the fog -
a Belgian monastery, a military base
so similar in solitude and order
only a barbed wire seperates them.
Country lane
gives way to pines and oak
quiet lives whilst leafing through
the album of nature -
Lush flat grass lands
with a fog oh so dense,
saturation of history seeping
out of the ground to mix with
the early morning dew -
souls and bones of lost soldiers
gives way to fields of
corn and harvest.
Oh how quiet life has become
and will be -
no longer the McDonalds
or 24/7 German kwiki-mart -
so replaced by farms,
fields,
fog,
rich history of
chocolate
wars
a people.
This is not my home,
only where my house sits,
but when the cyan eyes close,
and who we are no longer matters,
then I will call it my home.
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