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Poem

I came back weary from the distant road,
Yet I returned singing, calling it "homeland."
Golden plains, stretching into the blue sky,
I longed for the scent of your wormwood.
Soft, dusty earth, swirling in golden clouds,
From this dust, your child weaves verse aloud.
To my eyes, it’s dearer than fire itself,
The remains of earth huts, the village I’ve felt.
The hearth stamped flat, the yard a perfect round,
To me, this expanse is sacred ground.
The embers where my mother brewed tea,
Held me pondering the glow of eternity.
The wind stirs crimson coals into a gleam,
On the coals, a white kettle softly steams.
In the earth hut, the wormwood's scent is strong,
Outside, the sheep chew cud, humming a song.
The scorching heat slowly fades away,
Stars crowd the black sky in their array.
My parents sip their tea with delight,
Holding sugar cubes, soaked just right.
Time flew by, laughing, as if in jest,
Leaving embers of hope from the hearth at rest.
Though my parents are gone to eternity,
The scent of wormwood lives forever in me.

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