Self Imposed Exile

I want to go back to my country But I can't seem to find the way Poverty is blurring the coordinates With every passing day I want to sit with my family And speak my native tongue Eat my mother’s home cooked meals And feel that I belong I am happy to have the work I do At least it pays the rent But after buying food and clothes I wonder where the money went How do I talk to my children? About the place that I call home To them it's just a story that I tell when I feel alone. I worry about my parents And the strife they daily face In a place once rich and vibrant Now sadly out of grace.